#(well my thoughts and link collection only) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mostlysignssomeportents · 18 days ago

Text

Predicting the present

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/09/radicalized/#deny-defend-depose

Back in 2018, around the time I emailed my immigration lawyer about applying for US citizenship, I started work on a short story called "Radicalized," which eventually became the title story of a collection that came out in 2019:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250228598/radicalized/

"Radicalized" is a story about America, and about guns, and about health care, and about violence. I live in Burbank, which is ranks second in gun-stores-per-capita in the USA, a dubious honor that represents a kind of regulatory arbitrage with our neighboring goliath, the City of Los Angeles, where gun store licensing is extremely tight. If you're an Angeleno in search of a firearm, you're almost certainly coming to Burbank to buy it.

Walking, cycling and driving past more gun stores than I'd ever seen in my Canadian life got me thinking about Americans and guns, a subject that many Canadians have passed comment upon. Americans kill each other, and especially themselves, at rates that baffle everyone else in the world, and they do it with guns. When we moved here, my UK born-and-raised daughter came home from her first elementary school lockdown drill perplexed and worried. Knowing what I did about US gun violence, I understood that while school shootings and other spree killings happened with dismal and terrifying regularity, they only accounted for a small percentage of the gun deaths here. If you die with a bullet in you, the chances are that the finger on the trigger was your own. The next most likely suspect is someone you know. After that, a cop. Getting shot by a stranger out of uniform is something of a rarity here – albeit a spectacular one that captures our imaginations in ways that deliberate or accidental self-slayings and related-party shootings do not.

So I told her, "Look, you can basically ignore everything they tell you during those lockdown drills, because they almost certainly have nothing to do with your future. But if a friend ever says to you, 'Hey, wanna see my dad's gun?' I want you to turn around and leave and get in touch with me right away, that instant."

Guns turn the murderous impulse – which, let's be honest, we've all felt at some time or another – into a murderous act. Same goes for suicide, which explains the high levels of non-accidental self-shootings in the USA: when you've got a gun, the distance between suicidal ideation and your death is the ten feet from the sofa to the gun in the closet.

Americans get angry at people and then, if they have a gun to hand, sometimes they shoot them. In a thread /r/Burbank about how people at our local cinemas are rude and use their phones in which someone posted, "Well, you should just ask them to stop." The reply: "That's a great way to get shot." No one chimed in to say, "Don't be ridiculous, no one would shoot you for asking them to put away their phone during a movie." Same goes for "road rage."

And while Americans shoot people they've only just gotten angry at, they also sometimes plan shooting sprees and kill a bunch of people because they're just generically angry. Being angry about the state of the world is a completely relatable emotion, of course, but the targets of these shootings are arbitrary. Sure sometimes these killings have clear, bigoted targets – mass shootings at Black supermarkets or mosques or synagogues or gay bars – more often the people who get sprayed with bullets (at country and western concerts or elementary schools or movie theaters) are almost certainly not the people the gunman (almost always a man) is angry at.

This line of thought kept surfacing as I went through the immigration process, but not just when I was dealing with immigration paperwork. I was also spending an incredible amount of time dealing with our health insurer, Cigna, who kept refusing treatments my pain doctor – one of the most-cited pain researchers in the country – thought I would benefit from. I've had chronic pain since I was a teenager, and it's only ever gotten worse. I've had decades of pain care in Canada and the UK, and while the treatments never worked for very long, it was never compounded by the kinds of bureaucratic stuff I went through with my US insurer.

The multi-hour phone calls with Cigna that went nowhere would often have me seeing red – literally, a red tinge closing in around my vision – and usually my hands would be shaking by the time I got off the call.

And I had it easy! I wasn't terminally ill, and I certainly wasn't calling in on behalf of a child or a spouse or parent who was seriously ill or dying, whose care was being denied by their insurer. Bernie's 2016 Medicare For All campaign promise had filled the air with statistics (Americans pay more for care and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world), and stories. So many stories – stories that just tore your heart out, about parents who literally had to watch their children die because the insurance they paid for refused to treat their kids. As a dad, I literally couldn't imagine how I'd cope in that situation. Just thinking about it filled me with rage.

One day, as I was swimming in the community pool across the street – a critical part of my pain management strategy – I was struck with a thought: "Why don't these people murder health insurance executives?" Not that I wanted them to. I don't want anyone to kill anyone. But why do American men who murder their wives and the people who cut them off in traffic and random classrooms full of children leave the health insurance industry alone? This is an industry that is practically designed to fill the people who interact with it with uncontrollable rage. I mean, if you're watching your wife or your kid die before your eyes because some millionaire CEO decided to aim for a $10 billion stock buyback this year instead of his customary $9 billion target, wouldn't you feel that kind of murderous rage?

Around this time, my parents came out for a visit from Canada. It was a great trip, until one night, my mom woke me up after midnight: "We have to take your father to the ER. He's really sick." He was: shaking, nauseated, feverish. We raced down the street to the local hospital, part of a gigantic chain that has swallowed nearly all the doctors' practices, labs and hospitals within an hour's drive of here.

Dad had kidney stones, and they'd gone septic. When the ER docs removed the stones, all the septic gunk in his kidneys was flushed into his bloodstream, and he crashed. If he hadn't been in an ER recovery room at the time, he would have died. As it was, he was in a coma for three days and it was touch and go. My brother flew down from Toronto, not sure if this was his last chance to see our dad alive. The nurses and doctors took great care of my dad, though, and three days later, he emerged from his coma, and today, he's better than ever.

But on day two, when we thought he was probably at the end of his life, as my mother sat at his side, holding the hand of her husband of fifty years, someone from the hospital billing department came to her side and said, "Mrs Doctorow, I know this is a difficult time, but I'd like to discuss the matter of your husband's bill with you."

The bill was $176,000. Thankfully, the travel medical insurance plan offered by the Ontario Teachers' Union pension covered it all (I don't suppose anyone gets very angry with them).

How do people tolerate this? Again, not in the sense of "people should commit violent acts in the face of these provocations," but rather, "How is it that in a country filled with both assault rifles and unimaginable acts of murderous cruelty committed by fantastically wealthy corporations, people don't leap from their murderous impulses to their murderous weapons to commit murderous acts?

For me, writing fiction is an accretive process. I can tell that a story is brewing when thoughts start rattling around in my mind, resurfacing at odd times. I think of them as stray atoms, seeking molecules with available docking sites to glom onto. I process all my emotions – but especially my negative ones – through this process, by writing stories and novels. I could tell that something was cooking, but it was missing an ingredient.

Then I found it: an interview with the woman who coined the term "incel." It was on the Reply All podcast, and Alana, a queer Canadian woman explained that she had struggled all her life to find romantic and sexual partnership, and jokingly started referring to herself as "involuntarily celibate," and then, as an "incel":

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/76h59o

Alana started a message board where other "incels" could offer each other support, and it was remarkably successful. The incels on Alana's message board helped each other work through the problems that stood between them and love, and when they did, they drifted away from the board to pursue a happier life.

That was the problem, Alana explained. If you're in a support group for people with a drinking problem, the group elders, the ones who've been around forever, are the people who've figured it out and gotten sober. When life seems impossible, those elders step in to tell you, I know it's terrible right now, but it'll get better. I was where you are and I got through it. You will, too. I'm here for you. We all are.

But on Alana's incel board, the old timers were the people who couldn't figure it out. They were the ones for whom mutual support and advice didn't help them figure out what they needed to do in order to find the love they sought. The longer the message board ran, the more it became dominated by people who were convinced that it was hopeless, that love was impossible for the likes of them. When newbies posted in rage and despair, these Great Old Ones were there to feed it: You're right. It will never get better. It only gets worse. There is no hope.

That was the missing piece. My short story Radicalized was born. It's a story about men on a message board called Fuck Cancer Right In the Fucking Face (FCKRFF, or "Fuckriff"), who are watching the people they love the most in the world be murdered by their insurance companies, who egg each other on to spectacular acts of mass violence against health insurance company employees, hospital billing offices, and other targets of their rage. As of today, anyone can read this story for free, courtesy of my publishers at Macmillan, who gave permission for the good folks at The American Prospect to post it:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

I often hear from people about this story, even before an unknown (at the time of writing) man assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of Unitedhealthcare, the murderous health insurance monopoly that is the largest medical insurer in the USA. Since then, hundreds of people have gotten in touch with me to ask me how I feel about this turn of events, how it feels to have "predicted" this.

I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I gotta tell you, I have complicated feelings.

You've doubtless seen the outpourings of sarcastic graveyard humor about Thompson's murder. People hate Unitedhealthcare, for good reason, because he personally decided – or approved – countless policies that killed people by cheating them until they died.

Nurses and doctors hate Thompson and United. United kills people, for money. During the most acute phase of the pandemic, the company charged the US government $11,000 for each $8 covid test:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/06/137300-pct-markup/#137300-pct-markup

UHC leads the nation in claims denials, with a denial rate of 32% (!!). If you want to understand how the US can spend 20% of its GDP and get the worst health outcomes in the world, just connect the dots between those two facts: the largest health insurer in human history charges the government a 183,300% markup on covid tests and also denies a third of its claims.

UHC is a vertically integrated, murdering health profiteer. They bought Optum, the largest pharmacy benefit manager ("A spreadsheet with political power" -Matt Stoller) in the country. Then they starved Optum of IT investment in order to give more money to their shareholders. Then Optum was hacked by ransomware gang and no one could get their prescriptions for weeks. This killed people:

https://www.economicliberties.us/press-release/malicious-threat-actor-accesses-unitedhealth-groups-monopolistic-data-exchange-harming-patients-and-pharmacists/#

The irony is, Optum is terrible even when it's not hacked. The purpose of Optum is to make you pay more for pharmaceuticals. If that's more than you can afford, you die. Optum – that is, UHC – kills people:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/23/shield-of-boringness/#some-men-rob-you-with-a-fountain-pen

Optum isn't the only murderous UHC division. Take Navihealth, an algorithm that United uses to kick people out of their hospital beds even if they're so frail, sick or injured they can't stand or walk. Doctors and nurses routinely watch their gravely ill patients get thrown out of their hospitals. Many die. UHC kills them, for money:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-08-16-steward-bankruptcy-physicians-private-equity/

The patients murdered by Navihealth are on Medicare Advantage. Medicare is the public health care system the USA extends to old people. Medicare Advantage is a privatized system you can swap your Medicare coverage for, and UHC leads the country in Medicare Advantage, blitzing seniors with deceptive ads that trick them into signing up for UHC Medicare Advantage. Seniors who do this lose access to their doctors and specialists, have to pay hundreds or thousands of dollars for their medication, and get hit with $400 surprise bills to use the "free" ambulance service:

https://prospect.org/health/2024-12-05-manhattan-medicare-murder-mystery/

No wonder the public spends 22% more subsidizing Medicare Advantage than they spend on the care for seniors who stick with actual Medicare:

https://theconversation.com/taxpayers-spend-22-more-per-patient-to-support-medicare-advantage-the-private-alternative-to-medicare-that-promised-to-cost-less-241997

It's not just the elderly, it's also the addicted and mentally ill. UHC illegally denies coverage for mental health and substance abuse treatment. Imagine watching a family member spiral out of control, ODing, or ending up on the streets with hallucinations, and knowing that the health insurance company that takes thousands of dollars out of your paycheck refused to treat them:

https://www.startribune.com/unitedhealthcare-will-pay-15-7m-in-settlement-of-denial-of-care-charges/600087607

Unsurprising, the internal culture at UHC is callous beyond belief. How could it not be? How could you go to work at UHC and know you were killing people and not dehumanize those victims? A lawsuit by chronically ill patient whom UHC had denied care for surfaced recorded phone calls in which UHC employees laughed long and hard about the denied claims, dismissing the patient's desperate, tearful pleas as "tantrums" :

https://www.propublica.org/article/unitedhealth-healthcare-insurance-denial-ulcerative-colitis

Those UHC workers are just trying to get by, of course, and the callouses they develop so they can bear to go to work were ripped off by last week's murder. UHC's executive team knows this, and has gone on a rampage to stop employees from leaking their own horror stories, or even mentioning that the internal company announcement of Thompson's death was seen by 16,000 employees, of whom only 28 left a comment:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/unitedhealthcare-tells-employees

Doctors and nurses hate UHC on behalf of their patients, but it's also personal. UHC screws doctor's practices by refusing to pay them, making them chase payments for months or even years, and then it offers them a payday lending service that helps them keep the lights on while they wait to get paid:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frr4wuvAB6U

Is it any surprise that Reddit's nursing forums are full of nurses making grim, satisfied jokes about the assassination of the $10m/year CEO who ran the $400b/year corporation that does all this?

https://www.thedailybeast.com/leading-medical-subreddit-deletes-thread-on-unitedhealthcare-ceos-murder-after-users-slam-his-record/

We're not supposed to experience – much less express – schadenfreude when someone is murdered in the street, no matter who they are. We're meant to express horror at the idea of political violence, even when that violence only claims a single life, a fraction of the body count UCH produced under Thompson's direction. As Malcolm Harris put it, "'Every life is precious' stuff about a healthcare CEO whose company is noted for denying coverage is pretty silly":

https://twitter.com/BigMeanInternet/status/1864471932386623753

As Woody Guthrie wrote, "Some will rob you with a six-gun/And some with a fountain pen." The weapon is lethal when it's a pistol and when it's an insurance company. The insurance company merely serves as an accountability sink, a layer of indirection that lets a murder happen without any person being the technical murderer:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

I don't want people to kill insurance executives, and I don't want insurance executives to kill people. But I am unsurprised that this happened. Indeed, I'm surprised that it took so long. It should not be controversial to note that if you run an institution that makes people furious, they will eventually become furious with you. This is the entire pitch of Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century: that wealth concentration leads to corruption, which is destabilizing, and in the long run it's cheaper to run a fair society than it is to pay for the guards you'll need to keep the guillotines off your lawn:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-the-21st-century/

But we've spent the past 40 years running in the other direction, maximizing monopolies, inequality and corruption, and gaslighting the public when they insist that this is monstrous and unfair. Back in 2022, when UHC was buying Change Healthcare – the dominant payment network for hospitals, which would allow UHC to surveil all its competitors' payments – the DOJ sued to block the merger. The Trump-appointed judge in the case, Carl Nichols – who owned tens of thousands of dollars in UHC bonds – ruled against the DOJ, saying that it would all be fine thanks to United's "culture of trust and integrity":

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/the-antitrust-shooting-war-has-started

We don't know much about Thompson's killer yet, but he's already becoming a folk hero, with lookalike contests in NYC:

https://twitter.com/CollinRugg/status/1865472577478553976

And gigantic graffiti murals praising him and reproducing the words he wrote on the shell casings of the bullets he used to kill Thompson, "delay, deny, depose":

https://www.tumblr.com/radicalgraff/769193188403675136/killin-fuckin-ceos-freight-graff-in-the-bay

I get why this is distasteful. Thompson is said to have been a "family man" who loved his kids, and I have no reason to disbelieve this. I can only imagine that his wife and kids are shattered by this. Every living person is the apex of a massive project involving dozens, hundreds of people who personally worked to raise, nurture and love them. I wrote about this in my novel Walkaway, as the characters consider whether to execute a mercenary sent to kill them, whom they have taken hostage:

She had parents. People who loved her. Every human was a hyper-dense node of intense emotional and material investment. Speaking meant someone had spent thousands of hours cooing to you. Those lean muscles, the ringing tone of command — their inputs were from all over the world, carefully administered. The merc was more than a person: like a spaceship launch, her existence implied thousands of skilled people, generations of experts, wars, treaties, scholarship and supply-chain management. Every one of them was all that.

But so often, the formula for "folk hero" is "killing + time." The person who terrorizes the people who terrorize you is your hero, and eventually we sanitize the deaths, and just remember them as fighters for justice. If you doubt it, consider the legend of Robin Hood:

https://twitter.com/mcmansionhell/status/1865554985842352501

The health industry is trying to put a lid on this, palpably afraid that – as in my story "Radicalized" – this one murderer will become a folk hero who inspires others to acts of spectacular violence. They're insisting that it's unseemly to gloat about Thompson's death. They're right, but this is an obvious loser strategy. The health industry is full of people whose deaths would be deplorable, but not unsurprising. As Clarence Darrow had it:

I’ve never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.

Murder is never the answer. Murder is not a healthy response to corruption. But it is healthy for people to fear that if they kill people for greed, they will be unsafe. On December 5 – the day after Thompson's killing – the health insurer Anthem announced that it would not pay for anesthesia for medical procedures that ran long. The next day, they retracted the policy, citing "outrage":

https://www.cnn.com/2024/12/05/health/anthem-blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-claim-limits/index.html

Sure, maybe it was their fear of reputation damage that got them to decide to reverse this inhumane, disgusting, murderous policy. But maybe it was also someone in the C-suite thinking about what share of the profits from this policy would have to be spent on additional bodyguards for every Anthem exec if it went into effect, and decided that it was a money-loser after all.

Think about hospital exec Ralph de la Torre, who cheerfully testified to Congress that he'd killed patients in pursuit of profit. De la Torre clearly doesn't fear any kind of consequences for his actions. He owns hospitals that are filled with tens of thousands of bats (he stiffed the exterminators), where none of the elevators work (he stiffed the repair techs), where there's no medicine or blood (he stiffed the suppliers) and where the doctors and nurses can't make rent (he stiffed them too). De La Torre doesn't just own hospitals – he also owns a pair of superyachts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It is a miracle that so many people have lost their mothers, sons, wives and husbands so Ralph de la Torre could buy himself another superyacht, and that those people live in a country where you can buy an assault rifle, and that Ralph de la Torre isn't forced to live in a bunker and travel in a tank.

It's a rather beautiful sort of miracle, to be honest. I like to think that it comes from a widespread belief by the people of this country I have since become a citizen of, that we should solve our problems politically, rather than with bullets.

But the assassination of Brian Thompson is a wake-up call, a warning that if we don't solve this problem politically, we may not have a choice about whether it's solved with violence. As a character in "Radicalized" says, "They say violence never solves anything, but to quote The Onion: that's only true so long as you ignore all of human history":

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

#pluralistic #unitedhealthcare #assassination #execution #violence #murder #science fiction #radicalized #health insurance #m4a #medicare for all #Brian Thompson #guns #cancer #corruption #usausausa #torment nexus

1K notes · View notes

tacticalhimbo · 3 months ago

Text

HURRICANE HELENE RELIEF

Since I'm incredibly anxious and very much annoyed, I'm compiling this post as a sort of master list of relief organizations and individual fundraisers for those in the path of Hurricane Helene.

Many of the links I post on this won't be individuals, but I encourage those within the path to add their links to this post in reblogs! Likewise, if you have any organizations / volunteer / grassroots efforts y'all would like to share, please do so!

LAST EDITED: 9/29/2024 - MAKE SURE TO CHECK REBLOGS FOR UPDATES!

My list is particularly focused on widely accessible resources, as well as Florida specific resources since... I'm from Florida.

(INTER)NATIONAL ORGANIZATIONS

American Red Cross - The American Red Cross is on the ground helping people as Hurricane Helene approaches land as a very dangerous storm. Helene may produce winds over 150 mph, a massive 20-foot-high storm surge and as much as a foot of rain. Prolonged power outages and tornadoes may occur. The effects will be felt hundreds of miles inland including in Georgia and the Carolinas.

FEMA Disaster Assistance Improvement Program - The Disaster Assistance Improvement Program’s (DAIP) mission is to provide disaster survivors with information, support, services, and a means to access and apply for disaster assistance through joint data-sharing efforts between federal, tribal, state, local, and private sector partners.

Roll Mobility - An application that equips wheelchair users with reliable information about the accessibility of restaurants, public spaces, businesses, trails, and parking areas. Good information to have on hand, especially for those evacuating from their home areas.

Warmline Directory - Providing extensive yet accessible resources that empower individuals to find the mental health and wellness resources they need through a directory containing accurate and in-depth information. For those unfamiliar: Unlike a crisis line, a warm line operator is unlikely to call the police or have someone locked up if they talk about suicidal or self-harming thoughts or behaviors. A good resource for individuals in mental distress due to natural disaster circumstances.

Food Not Bombs - Recovers food that would have been discarded and share it as a way of protesting war and poverty. They also reduce food waste and meet the direct need of communities by collecting discarded food, preparing vegan meals that they share with the hungry while providing literature about the need to change our society. Food Not Bombs also provides food to protesters and striking workers and organizes food relief after natural and political crisis.

Partnership for Inclusive Disaster Strategies - The Partnership for Inclusive Disaster Strategies (The Partnership) is the only U.S. disability-led, 501(c)(3) organization that prioritizes equity, access, disability rights, disability justice, and full inclusion of people with disabilities, older adults, and people with access and functional needs before, during and after disasters and emergencies.

FLORIDA

Volunteer Florida Disaster Fund - The Florida Disaster Fund is the State of Florida’s official private fund established to assist Florida’s communities as they respond to and recover during times of emergency or disaster. In partnership with the public sector, private sector and other non-governmental organizations, the Florida Disaster Fund supports response and recovery activities.

State and Local Level Referrals - When a disaster occurs, local governments often work together with community leaders and organizations to provide on-the-ground emergency management. Curated by FEMA. (Has 52 Organizations Listed)

GEORGIA

TENNESSEE

NORTH CAROLINA

Beloved Asheville - A community-led coalition dedicated to providing home, healthy, equity, and opportunity for all.

Triangle NC - This links to another post I've made, but Triangle Mutual Aid is organizing supply drop offs as well as financial support.

SOUTH CAROLINA

INDIVIDUAL FUNDRAISERS

Support a Resilient Family Seeking a New Home - LINK ; Tumblr @junpei-iori-ace-defective (Close Friend of the Affected) | Fundraiser Text Below:

My name is Adam. I'm not the best at this; I never thought I'd have to do this, but my family and I lost our home on September 26th due to the hurricane Helene here in Florida. No one in our area thought it would get bad, but we didn't have any rain. All of a sudden, the water rose, and by midnight, our home was flooded with three feet of water. I had to carry our pets to the neighbors and my disabled wife through five feet of water. Then, my elderly disabled mother and grandmother through the water. We lost all of our clothes and many of our belongings, and our landlord will be having us move out. We have nowhere to go, so today I'm asking for help from the kindness of the world. Anything can help. If I can get enough to get us into a new home, it would be a blessing. Thank you all, and God bless.

Help Rebuild Lives After Devastating Flash Flood - LINK ; Tumblr @undeadnecromancer (Close Friend of the Affected) | Fundraiser Text Below:

On September 27, after being trapped in a flash flood for 5 hours, my father, Jeffrey Fuller, and sister, Kayla Fuller, left with their lives ❤️ but lost everything else. My father had set his life up to be simple and enjoyable. He didn't have a lot extra, but he had everything he needed, and now all of that is gone. Unfortunately, he did not have flood insurance, and the older you get, the harder it is to bounce back from something like this. For a man who has always shown up for everyone he loves, he needs us to show up now. Please help my father rebuild.

If you have seen the video circulating around from Jeffrey Fuller where it looks like a river is going through his house and he ends it with a “Love you all,” you have seen what has brought on this devastation.

Hurricane Helene Aftermath Help - LINK ; Tumblr @moonenjoyer (Affected Individual) | Fundraiser Text Below:

Man I hate to do this but I'm in Valdosta, one of the cities hit the worse by Hurricane Helene. It's BAD here. In particular, there's no estimate of when we'll get power back. Word on the street is it could be a week or longer.

I work from home and going without power that long, I won't be making any money. Meanwhile my groceries are all spoiled in a fridge with no power and my car is on E. All the gas stations are down atm and when they're back up I KNOW gas prices are going to be crazy high because of all of this. In fact, EVERYTHING is going to be more expensive for a while because of this.

If you have anything to spare to help me with gas and groceries and just surviving this, I'd really appreciate it. If not, a reblog/share would mean a lot. Thank you ❤️

Save Nate and Amanda's First Home - Urgent Hurricane Needs - LINK ; Tumblr @luckyfirerabbit (Affected Individual) | Fundraiser Text Below:

Hi. I'm Porter Henderson. This isn't about me, though. You’re going to see a lot of fundraisers with Hurricane Helene. This might be a little different.

You see, I’m writing this on behalf of my landlords and friends, Nate and Amanda. The home we share with an additional disabled man in Lithonia, Georgia had some repairs that they couldn't afford, made much worse by the hurricane. They'd been limping along like everyone dealing with inflation and underemployment, but the situation has become urgent, and they need and deserve help.

Nate and Amanda have been my friends for over a decade, and when they heard I was no longer able to work and in a bad situation, they offered me a place in their first home. I told them I wasn’t sure what or when I would be able to pay. They told me that if I ever won my disability case I could start paying rent then.

You see, I'm trying so hard to save this home because they’ve tried so hard to save me.

I was so grateful to move in, and they treated me like family. When I lost the ability to drive, they made sure I got to my doctor’s appointments, and still do. When I can’t afford food, they take me to food banks, and what I can’t find there they’ll help me get at the store. They meet all the needs they could reasonably meet, and then a couple more.

I’ve lived here for three years now, and they’ve never stopped assuring me that I am wanted, even if I can’t contribute to the household on a daily basis. They have never let me go without if there was any other way. They have helped friends and strangers every time they have seen a need. They are unfailingly honest, incredibly trustworthy, and extremely hardworking people.

They've never had much, but they've shared everything they have.

Now, though, the hurricane turned a seem in our roof into a gushing waterfall, and finally into a large hole in Nate and Amanda's bedroom ceiling.

We tarped the leaking roof from the inside to channel out as much water as we could, but with a literal hurricane outside, there’s only so much that you can do.

The three of us who couldn’t get into the attic pushed our chronically ill bodies past their limits, dragging furniture away from walls, hauling totes as fast as we could with our canes, shoving empty containers into the corner as we kicked the debris out, and researching strategies for how to deal with the nightmare. Later we would wade through flooding water to dump out rain and tie down loose trash cans, shine lights and relay directions from the attic to outside, as we all attempted to get the water venting outside the house.

To make matters worse, the HVAC needs to be replaced. It’s a seventeen year old system, with a huge crack in the (inaccessible) drain pan and a bad motherboard. Some friends pooled money with Nate and Amanda to get a couple of window air conditioners for the summer. With medications that make three of us sensitive to heat, it’s been a rough summer, but we got through.

Unfortunately, winter is a few weeks away, and it’s going to be a little less than seventeen thousand for a new system to be installed.

What makes it an emergency however, is that without the drying and air movement of the AC, trying to dehumidify everything is going to be even harder, giving us a greater chance of mold. If mold takes hold, I'm not sure if we can save the house.

This fundraiser is for the $2,500 hurricane deductible that we're almost certainly going to be charged by the homeowner's policy and the $17,000 for the HVAC, plus estimated fees for the platform.

Not included in the total are any cleaning supplies, or a tiny storage unit and rental truck if we need one to store all of their bedroom furniture while the roof is redone. (We won't know about any of that until we get the estimate from insurance/roofing.) The claim has already been filed.

The air conditioning is a pre-existing problem, and I've found no way for it to be covered by any charity, government program, or private programs in the state. The ones that my social worker knew about didn't apply (I applied anyway) and I let her know about two more that I found. The religious groups I've reached out to in my area don't work in anything but clothing, children's furniture, and durable medical goods.

If additional costs emerge, or anything ends up being less expensive, I will update and adjust the goal accordingly as soon as I find out.

Please help these genuinely good people. The smallest donation helps. So does sharing.

Thank you in advance.

#txt #important #hurricane helene #mutual aid #florida #georgia #north carolina #south carolina #tennessee #long post

1K notes · View notes

astheforcewillsit · 3 months ago

Text

In which the Kaminoans provide a miseducated version of what and who the Jedi are, and the clones realize that at their core, the Jedi are religious monks.

Cultural misunderstands are bound to ensue due to this.

(based of the scene where Obi-wan and Anakin bow to Echo and Fives after they join the 501st)

(original ao3 link)

The first time Obi-Wan bows to Cody, he does so low and Infront of the men. All of the men. It is not a simple incline of his head. It is a slow, low dip.

Ancient practiced movements, just as Qui-Gon had taught him.

They had had saved his life. Again And he is truly grateful. He is still unused to a war like this. His very essence as a Jedi protests his involvement in it.

But he moves only by the will of the Force, and it has brought him to such a moment like this.

Before he completes his gratitude, he is stunned by a collective gasp amongst the men and an arm on his shoulder. The Force tells him it is one of the younger men.

There's a sharp reprimand from Cody, and the arm is off, though the Force is still disturbed

(The touch had not bothered Obi-Wan, in between droids and separatist leaders, it has been the kindest touch he's had all week.

It doesn't bother him, the touch of the clones. He enjoys their presence. Though he can feel the fear palatable through the Force. He hopes that one day they'll be less terrified of him. That they will know him for the human he is. Force knows the damage the Kaminoans have done to the reputation of the Jedi Order.)

Cody steps up as Obi-Wan rises--clearly the action disturbed the peace.

"Sir, I-"

"Clearly I have done something to offend you." He straightens himself, "I apologize."

Cody looks scandalized. This is not going well.

He hesitates. His Commander is still a Labyrinth. He looks at the face of Jango Fett everyday, though he sees none of the darkness clouded in those eyes. With Cody, it's almost fear.

"Sir, there is no need to apologize to us. it's just..."

"it's a sign that we've done wrong and have to ask for forgiveness, usually done by subordinates--cadets to the Kaminoans or the bounty hunters that trained us. When you did that, well...it looked like you thought you did something wrong, that maybe you were asking for forgiveness or was ashamed," another clone (Boil, Obi-Wan reminds himself, the "shiny" who touched him) supplies with some distaste, "doesn't mean the same for you sir?"

Obi-Wan could confuse them, because technically Jedi do bow for forgiveness too. But not in shame, never. He decides to keep it beginner level friendly today.

"I am expressing gratitude. You saved my life," Obi-Wan responds as if it is the most obvious thing, "Though If I have done anything wrong, it has simply been confusing you all. I will not bow if it makes you all comfortable."

His culture is important to him. It his his blood and his soul, but these men are not here with him of their own accord. These men are making sacrifices just by being alive, Obi-Wan could stand to be more like them. Though his heart pulls at the thought of abandoning something so natural to him.

"No sir, that is not necessary," Cody seems to relax in front of him. His anxiety has dissolved into gentle waves in the Force, and instead Obi-Wan senses a small bit of curiosity.

It reverberates through the company.

"Should we..."

"Oh Force no, if bowing has been negative to you please do not do it on my account. And I will alter it," he makes an example, inclining his head just slightly and putting a hand to his chest, praying he doesn't offend, "I am grateful to you all, and I endeavor to show it."

"Only what you're comfortable with, your culture is sacred to you, I know this," he adds, "and if you never tell me anything, I will be okay with that."

"Can you...can we learn more. The kaminoans didn't tell us you did that, they didn't tell us you were...priest--"

"Monks," Obi-wan corrects and smiles at the clone who asked, Waxer the Force tells him, "And I will till you all you want to know about the Jedi, if you feel comfortable telling me about who you are."

There's reluctance in the Force. They may not be Mandalorians, but they carry the secrecy of their beliefs with them. He doesn't blame them. They have so little that belongs to them, the clones. Why give what scarcity they own away to the man who they were handed to on a silver platter.

The Force radiates skepticism, but also trust.

Good, the gap is slowly bridging.

#tcw #obi-wan kenobi #Commander cody #codywan #212th attack battalion #jedi culture #clone culture #jedi order

441 notes · View notes

yannawayne · 5 months ago

Text

iv. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established Relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.

You attempt a casual wave, but it comes off as weak and awkward. Blood drips from your bruised knuckles, each drop splattering with a muted plop onto the polished floor. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, “What the fuck happened, kid?”

A typical dinner at the Waynes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Wednesday, 6:54 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

Three Days Later

THE ROOM IS QUIET except for the occasional rustle of clothing as you pack your things. You carefully fold your favorite hoodie, tucking it neatly into the suitcase. Next, you grab a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and your worn-out sneakers.

You pause, your fingers lingering on a framed photo resting on the edge of the dresser. It's a snapshot of you and Damian at a carnival, his arm slung over your shoulder, his lips gently pressed against your head.

It’s been three days of radio silence between you and Damian. Three days of not speaking, which is practically a record for your relationship. And just when you were starting to get used to the peace and quiet, Bruce had to go and invite you and Selina to a celebratory dinner tonight. A gourmet guilt trip.

With a sigh, you place the photo gently on top of your clothes. Then you move to your desk, gathering a stack of notebooks crammed with sketches and half-finished plans scribbled on napkins and crumpled scraps of paper. You tuck them into the side pocket of your bag, carefully arranging the chaotic collection so that it all fits.

The door creaks open, and Selina steps into the room, her arms crossed with a proud smile playing on her lips.

“Packing up for your big adventure?” she asks.

You look up from your suitcase, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. It’s only for a month, but it feels like I’m leaving for a year.”

“A month isn’t so long.” Selina walks over, her feet thudding softly on the floor. She picks up a small figurine from your desk, examining it with a thoughtful expression. “Think of it as a chance to stretch your wings and maybe learn a thing or two.”

“Thanks.” You smile and turn back to your packing, reaching for your suit. The sleek, black material glistens under the soft light filtering through the window. You run your fingers over the spider emblem stitched into the back, feeling the familiar texture beneath your fingertips.

“You’re not seriously thinking of bringing the suit, are you?” she asks.

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the suit in your hands. “I thought I might need it. Just in case.”

“Well, you’re not planning on fighting crime in Stark Tower, are you?” she snarks, hands finding her hips as she gives you a look that clearly says she’s not buying your excuse. “This internship is a chance for you to have a life outside the vigilante shtick. It’s good for your future. A chance to live a normal life.”

“Normal? Mom, I stopped being normal the day I got these powers. There's no going back to that.”

“Maybe not,” Selina concedes, running gentle fingers through your hair. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have something close to it. You deserve to have options, to see what else is out there for you.”

You meet her gaze, your resolve unwavering. “I hear you. But I think I need to bring it. Just in case something goes wrong.”

Selina sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “God. You are just as stubborn as me,” she says, rising to her feet with a resigned smile. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this internship. Give it a real shot, okay?”

“Promise,” you hum, feeling a small sense of relief. As you reach for the suit to tuck it into your bag, your phone buzzes insistently.

Quickly, you glance at the screen.

Morgana:

Busy tonight? There’s a shipment near the docks. Tech equipment from what I see.

You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.

It's… Black Mask.

For a while, you stare at the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen, itching to swipe through the new messages. But Selina is still standing nearby. With a soft cough and a resigned exhale, you place the phone face down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the message for now.

You turn your attention back to your suitcase, refocusing on the task at hand. Selina watches you with a knowing look but doesn’t press further. The silence in the room is filled with the subtle rustle of fabric and the soft clink of zippers as you continue packing.

“Ready for tonight?” Selina asks.

You nod, though a knot tightens in your stomach. Bruce’s congratulatory dinner feels less like a celebration and more like an impending test, especially with the unresolved tension between you and Damian hanging heavy.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” you reply, attempting to sound confident.

You zip up the suitcase, taking a moment to glance around the room. Everything seems to be in place, but you double-check, making sure you haven’t forgotten anything essential.

Selina nods approvingly, then steps closer, bending to pull you into a hug. “I’ll go get dressed. You do too, alright?”

Selina leaves the room, her footsteps fading into the distance. Turning back to your suitcase, you rummage through the clothes, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans and a red jacket. After slipping on some socks and sneakers, you reach for a black shirt. But as your hand hovers over the fabric, your gaze is drawn to your suit laid out on the bed.

The spider logo on its back glares at you, its eight-legged emblem almost seeming to reach out with an imperceptible pull, as if urging you to embrace your other self.

After a moment of inner conflict, you give in. You carefully pull on the suit beneath your clothes, the snug material wrapping around you like a second skin. With the suit in place, you slip on your black shirt, followed by the jacket and jeans. You tuck your mask into the pocket of your jacket.

Wearing a superhero suit under your clothes for a fancy dinner—definitely not a sign of insanity. Totally normal behavior. Call it creative paranoia.

With everything packed and ready, you head downstairs. Selina is still in her room, and you catch sight of her as she steps into view, looking a touch more formal than you in a sleek, off-shoulder black dress that hugs her curves. It’s short, tight, and elegant.

“Done already?” she hums, moving to her vanity and starting on her hair and makeup.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe and giving your hair a casual tousle. “Yeah, figured I’d keep it simple. Not sure I’m in the mood for fancy.”

Selina glances at you through the mirror, a small, reassuring smile curling her lips. “You look great. And don’t worry too much about tonight. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.

The clock on the wall reads 7:00. You have three hours before the dinner, and Selina, always the early planner, will be occupied with her preparations for a while.

Pulling out your phone, you check Morgan’s message again. If you played your cards right, you could handle the shipment bust quickly and still make it to the dinner on time.

Clearing your throat, you push yourself off the doorframe and tug your hood back on. You head downstairs, making sure to keep your movements casual and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen.

“I’ll be heading out for a bit. I want to get some flowers for Alfred,” you call out, your voice carrying through the house.

Selina glances up from her vanity, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. “Alright, but don’t be too long. We need to leave once the driver arrives.”

“Got it,” you reply with a quick nod, turning and heading out of the room. You make your way downstairs, slipping out the front door and into the crisp evening air.

Once you’re in the privacy of a nearby alleyway, you waste no time. Tugging off your shirt, you shove it into the pocket of your jacket, feeling a rush of adrenaline. You slip on your mask, adjusting it carefully until it fits snugly, the familiar material settling comfortably against your skin. Your jeans, jacket, and sneakers stay on for practicality, and you plan to put the black shirt back on later.

With everything in place, you secure your earpiece and gadgets, pressing the earpiece into position and activating it. The familiar hum of your tech springs to life, and you’re ready to move.

The city’s sounds fade as you slip into the shadows.

“Morgz? You there?” you call out, already scaling up the side of a building.

A crackle of static precedes Morgan’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here. You on your way?”

“Just about to leave,” you reply, grabbing onto a ledge and pulling yourself up. “Any updates on the shipment?”

“It’s scheduled to arrive in about 30 minutes. The tech equipment is being unloaded from a truck into a warehouse. Security’s decent, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re only 15 minutes away from your spot right now.”

“Got it,” you confirm, reaching the rooftop and taking a moment to scan the area below. “I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the heads-up.”

You launch into action, web-slinging towards the docks with a focus on speed. Normally, you’d be showboating and performing flips, but tonight, every second counts. The journey takes a bit longer than expected—20 minutes instead of 15.

As you approach the docks, you spot a boat pulling up to the edge, its silhouette cutting through the darkness.

“Surprised you even took this up,” Morgan’s voice murmurs through your earpiece. “Thought you weren't allowed to patrol on school nights.”

“Technically… I’m not,” you reply, weaving between buildings and adjusting your trajectory for a swift descent.

“Yeesh. Going rebellious already?”

“Teenage angst, remember?” you quip, a grin forming beneath your mask as you prepare to intercept the shipment

Landing on a rooftop adjacent to the warehouse, you take a moment to plan your entry. The warehouse is a large, industrial building with a few tall windows and a side door that looks like it’s used for deliveries.

Security cameras are mounted on the corners of the building, rotating every now and then. You quickly survey the area, noting the guards' position.

There are a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter, walking in predictable patterns. One guard is stationed near the side door, checking his watch occasionally. The other two are more mobile, taking turns walking around the exterior and scanning the area.

Beyond the security, you see five workers moving boxes from the boat to the warehouse. The open doors at the far end reveal crates of tech equipment being unloaded.

You activate your earpiece. "Update. Three guards outside. Five active workers. They've got cameras. Can you get those down for me?"

Morgan's voice crackles through your earpiece. "On it. Give me a sec."

You watch the cameras, waiting for them to go offline. The guard near the side door looks at his watch again, oblivious to what's about to happen.

After a tense moment, Morgan's voice comes back. "Cameras are down. You've got about an hour before the system kicks in again. Oh. That and there are about 5 more guards inside."

"Perfect," you hum.

You time your movements with the guards' patrols, slipping through the shadows. You approach the side door, keeping low and quiet.

Inside, the warehouse is dimly lit, with stacks of crates creating narrow pathways. The workers are busy unloading the truck, their focus on the task at hand. You crawl up the walls swiftly and silently.

You spot a terminal near the back of the warehouse, its blinking lights indicating it’s connected to the inventory system.

Time to get to work.

“I'm at the terminal. What’s next?” you whisper into the earpiece.

Morgan’s voice comes through with a steady tone. “Plug in the flash drive to copy the inventory data. While that’s running, find the main control panel for the security system and plant the tracker. This will help us monitor future shipments.”

You nod, even though she can't see you. "Got it. Flash drive first, then tracker."

You slip to the terminal and plug in the flash drive, which hums softly as it starts copying data. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, you head to the security control panel hidden behind some crates and quickly plant the tracker.

"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.

"Great job. The data copy should be done soon. Once it’s finished, you can pull the flash drive and get out of there."

You head back to the terminal, keeping an eye on the workers and guards. The flash drive's light blinks, signaling it's almost finished. After a few tense moments, the light turns solid.

"Data copied," Morgan confirms. "You’re clear to go."

You pull out the flash drive, tuck it into your pocket, and start heading toward the exit, blending into the shadows. Just as you reach the door, you hear voices nearby.

“Hey, did you hear something?”

Your heart stops as the guard’s flashlight beam sweeps dangerously close to your hiding spot. You freeze, pressing yourself against the cold metal wall, barely breathing.

“Probably just a rat. Let's check it out just in case.”

You curse silently under your breath, watching as the guards start moving in your direction.

The first guard steps closer, his flashlight scanning the area. You silently crawl up the wall, positioning yourself above him. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at the flashlight, yanking it out of his hand and into the darkness.

“What the—” the guard starts, but you quickly web his mouth shut and pull him up towards the ceiling, wrapping him tightly in webbing and securing him to the roof. You knock his head against the metal, and he passes out.

The second guard, alarmed by the sudden commotion, turns his back to you as he draws his weapon. The rifle fires, but your spider sense helps you dodge the shots.

Cursing, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground. Before he can react, you web his hands to the floor and sling his weapon away.

Dropping from the ceiling, you slow your landing with a web and slam your foot down onto his head, knocking him out.

Despite the quiet disposal of the two guards, the earlier rifle shot already alerted the other workers and guards in the warehouse. You hear shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.

“Someone’s here! Find them!”

Guards scramble, their flashlights slicing through the darkness, casting erratic beams that dance across the warehouse walls. You sprint away, weaving between crates and machinery, but a new threat emerges from the shadows—a massive, burly man, easily twice your size. He’s built like a brick wall, his muscles straining against his uniform, and his face looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, etched with a permanent scowl.

“Who’s messing around in 'ere?” the giant roars, his voice reverberating through the cavernous space. He brandishes a rifle, and from the looks of it, he seems to be their leader.

You glance at your watch—damn, it’s been two hours already.

Only an hour left.

Still… you could probably get one fight in before leaving.

…

Swinging out of the shadows, you land in front of the giant, hands on your hips.

“Hi, Mr. Villain!” you call out, catching a punch he throws and giving his hand a playful shake. “I’m Spidey, your friendly neighborhood nuisance. Always nice to meet someone with such a ‘heavy’ presence. Looks like you’ve got a bit of a security problem here—totally my bad.”

The giant snarls at you. He fires his rifle, but you deftly dodge the bullets. With a swift move, you fire a web at his feet and arms, pinning him momentarily to the ground. The rifle is knocked from his hands, clattering out of reach.

The guards scramble to regroup, and you spring into action. Flipping back into the air, you disarm the remaining guards—quick web blasts here, a roundhouse kick there, an uppercut thrown. Each guard crumples under the assault, slamming against the walls one by one, webbed together in a tangled heap.

There’s a snap as the leader breaks free, roaring in fury and charging at you. You duck under his swinging arm and fire a web at a stack of crates. The crates topple and crash into his path, heavy wood and metal smashing together. He stumbles, cursing and flailing wildly.

“Careful there! You might just crush your own merchandise,” you taunt, sidestepping his erratic swings.

In that moment of distraction, you snatch his gun away with a quick webshot. But as you turn to face him again, a jolt of pure adrenaline slams through your veins, sharp and unrelenting, like an electric shock.

The world sharpens into hyperfocus.

DANGER!

Your instincts scream at you to move. You leap to the side, but it’s already too late. A shadowy figure springs from the darkness, their knife catching a deadly glint in the harsh warehouse lights.

The blade slices through your suit, leaving a searing, agonizing wound. You stagger, clutching your side as blood seeps through the torn fabric and pools on the cold concrete. With a pained grimace, you muster the strength to shoot a web at the attacker, slamming them against the wall with a forceful swing.

“Spidey?! Come in. Shit. What happened to staying stealthy?” Morgan's voice crackles through the earpiece. “PEPPER, run back their vitals on me.”

A mechanical voice responds through your earpiece. “Vitals are stable. The wound is a deep six-inch laceration on the left side, with moderate blood loss, but the suit's padding has helped. The injury missed major organs and arteries. Immediate first aid and stitches are recommended.”

“Looks like I’ve got a new scar to show for tonight,” you heave, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as the giant stalks toward you. “But I’m not done yet.”

The man's roar shakes the warehouse.

“You think you can take me, you puny spider?!”

You lift your chin, tilting your head with a smirk. “Puny? That’s funny. I’ve taken down bigger.”

The giant lunges, brandishing a scrap of metal like a battering ram. You barely dodge, feeling the whoosh of air as it swings past. You retaliate with a web shot to his face, but he roars and swats it away, his massive arms tearing through your webbing.

“Careful there, big guy,” you quip, “I’m not into heavy metal, but thanks for the offer!”

His hand clamps onto your chest, lifting you off your feet with an alarming strength. He hurls you against a stack of crates, the impact slamming you into the wall. You slide down to the floor, dazed and with blood trickling from a split lip.

While you're down, the giant strides toward you, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground like a mini earthquake. You struggle to rise, just as he launches a flying knee. Your senses scream, a blaring alarm urging you to move.

!!!

With a yelp, you roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that hits where you had been seconds before.

“Hey, watch it! I’ve got places to be after this!” you yell.

Before you can react, a powerful punch slams into your face, sending you spiraling backward.

“Owie. That one’s definitely gonna leave a mark,” you groan, pain radiating through your skull. Desperately, you shoot a web at his legs, hoping to slow him down. The webbing holds for a moment before he rips through it with sheer brute force.

Groaning, you shake off the dizziness, rolling your shoulders to loosen them before pushing yourself back to your feet.

“Alright,” you mutter, taking a deep breath. “Clearly, the webs aren’t working. Guess we’re sticking to fists. Put ’em up, big guy.”

Laughing with a guttural, mocking tone, the giant charges at you. As he lunges, you brace yourself and bring your fist up to guard your face. With a burst of power, you jab forward. Your knuckles connect with his face with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering and flesh splitting echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap.

JAB!

The man staggers back, his head snapping violently to the side, blood spraying from his jaw. Before he can recover, you launch into a spinning kick. Your leg connects with explosive force, slamming him into the wall with a resounding thud.

You follow up with a powerful jump, driving a kick into his ribs. The impact echoes with a sickening crack. He roars in pain and collapses, slumped against the wall.

With quick reflexes, you shoot a web at a high pipe, coiling it tightly. You yank the pipe down with all your strength. It crashes onto the giant with a resounding clang, the impact knocking him out cold.

You take a couple of deep breaths, blood and sweat mingling on your clothes and face as you survey the wreckage. The giant groans weakly—alive, but definitely out of commission for the moment.

“Looks like the big guy’s all out of steam,” you murmur, wiping the blood from your brow with a grim smile. “Now, time to find that exit before my own steam runs out.”

With a final glance at the chaos you've left behind, you swing toward the exit. The cut on your side throbs with each movement—though it's slowly healing, the pain and blood are still very much present.

"Spidey? You alright? What the fuck, you just beat that guy within an inch of his life."

“He’ll live,” you huff as you swing through the streets. After fumbling around for a while, you pull your phone from your jacket and curse at the time.

Only ten minutes before the car arrives.

“Uh, Morgz, do me a favor. Where’s the nearest flower shop?”

"Christ. You just busted down an illegal tech deal and now you're out for flowers?" Morgan’s response comes through the earpiece before you hear some typing. “There’s a florist two blocks from your current location. I’m sending you the address. But—You really need to take care of that wound.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply. There's a ping as the location pops up on your phone. “Just need to pick up some flowers. Trust me, it’s important.”

You adjust your swing to head toward the florist, landing quietly in the alley outside. With quick movements, you slip off your mask and start changing. You discard your jacket, revealing the bloodied suit underneath. The suit’s dark color masks most of the stains, but it's still a grim sight.

Pulling on your shirt over the suit, you try to conceal the worst of the mess. The sticky, wet feeling of blood against your skin is unpleasant, and you grimace as you adjust the shirt. Finally, you slip the jacket back on, hoping it will help you blend in and give you a semblance of normalcy.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten up and glance at your reflection in the nearby puddle. The image staring back at you is a disheveled mess: hair tousled, face bruised and bloodied, jeans stained with grime and blood, and a jacket barely concealing it all.

“Not my best look,” you bite your lip. “But it’ll have to do.”

With a sigh, you step into the flower shop. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the warm, floral scent is a welcome relief from the warehouse’s stench.

The florist looks up from behind the counter with a curious glance. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed.

In Gotham, a bloodied teenager is probably just another Wednesday.

“Evening,” the florist says, his voice carrying the neutrality of someone accustomed to the oddities of city life. “What can I do for you?”

You give a quick nod, trying to keep your tone casual despite the blood still seeping through your shirt. “Need something nice. Simple. No need for anything flashy.”

The florist nods and starts arranging a bouquet of flowers. You drift over to a corner and find yourself looking at some daisies, their bright, cheerful colors a stark contrast to your current state.

“Spidey? How’s it going?”

“Alright,” you shrug, though she can’t see it. “Can I get a rundown on my vitals again?”

Morgan’s voice hums and there’s the sound of clicking keys. “Vitals are stable. The cut is slowly healing, but you’ll need to properly bandage and get some of that stitched later Happy to say you're not going to die bleeding out.”

She pauses, and then adds, “You’ve got a couple of broken ribs though.”

You blink in surprise and pat at your sides, feeling nothing. “Really? Guess that’s my pain tolerance working overtime. Didn’t even notice.”

“Please tell me you’re getting that treated first,” Morgan says, a hint of concern in her voice.

“Nope,” you reply, moving to pay for the flowers. “Already running late. Mom will kill me if she finds out.”

Morgan’s voice is laced with skepticism. “She’s going to find out anyway.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the twinge in your side. “I’ll just say it was a mugging.”

“Do you really think she’ll believe that?” Morgan asks, her tone dry.

You let out a small, pained chuckle. “In Gotham, maybe. But realistically…no. I’m just hoping to buy myself a little time before it all catches up to me.”

With the bouquet in hand, you head back out into the night. You tuck the flowers into your free pocket and swing off into the darkness. As you soar through the city, you reach for your earpiece and say a quick, “Goodnight, Morgz,” before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans.

Just as you near the bridge, your phone rings. You glance at the screen and curse under your breath—Selina’s calling, and from the look of it, she’s been trying to reach you multiple times over the past hour.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

You answer the call, forcing a casual tone. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

Selina’s voice comes through, clearly agitated. You can hear her huffing as she closes the apartment door, the background noise of a car engine rumbling outside. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting forever. We’re all set to head out.”

You quickly scan the streets below as you swing past, trying to gauge your location. “Uh, I’m on 2nd Broadway… actually, make that 3rd Broadway. And… 4th of Broadway! I’ll be there in… twenty minutes tops. Almost there, Mom!”

There’s a pause.

“... Are you swinging?”

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, narrowly dodging a pigeon that flaps angrily past your face. “Just a bit of a detour. You know how it is.”

“Honey. I can hear the wind. Are you really swinging around? It’s a school night. You know the rules—”

You wince, knowing you’ve been caught. “Just… had a few things to take care of. I’m on my way. Promise. Actually, why don’t I meet you at Wayne Manor instead? I’m near the bridge. Ya know, the one by the docks.”

There’s another pause on her end.

“Why are you near the docks?!”

You avoid the question, trying to keep the conversation moving. “Long story. Look, I’m running late. Can we just meet at Wayne Manor? I’ll explain everything after dinner.”

Selina’s frustration doesn’t ease, but she sighs. “Fine. Wayne Manor it is. But don’t think for a second you’re off the hook, young lady.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “Understood. See you soon. Love you, Mom!”

༻⊰───⋅

BEEP.

Selina scowls as she ends the call and heads down to meet Alfred. The gritty streets of Gotham greet her, the cacophony of sirens and street chatter providing a harsh backdrop to her mood.

Alfred, noticing her irritated state, opens the door for her with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you Miss Kyle. May I ask where the young miss is?"

Selina forces a smile, trying to mask her frustration. “She’s… handling something that came up last minute. She’ll meet us at the manor.”

"Very well. I trust she’ll be punctual." Alfred says, a hint of concern in his eyes, but he says nothing more. He closes the door behind her as she slips into the car, adjusting her coat and glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The engine starts, the low hum blending with the city’s background noise. As the vehicle pulls away, Selina leans back against the cool leather seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, her mind already racing through the conversation she knows is coming.

You were dead meat.

༻⊰───⋅

After nearly an hour of high-speed swings through Gotham, you finally touch down in a secluded area near Wayne Manor. You're breathless and disheveled, your earlier efforts to look presentable having fallen short. You quickly scan the area, making sure the security cameras don’t catch your arrival.

Taking a moment to compose yourself, you adjust your clothes and press the doorbell. The chime rings through the grand entrance. You glance at your phone and wince—you're an hour and thirty minutes late.

The swinging took longer than expected, and to make matters worse, you had to intervene when this ginger reporter was being robbed. You couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

Now, as you wait by the gate, you hear footsteps approaching from inside. The door swings open to reveal Alfred, who freezes for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of you—bruised, bloodied, and clearly worse for wear. You lean against the gate, your fingers curling around the metal.

“H—Hey, Al.”

“Goodness me!” Alfred exclaims, hurrying over to the gate and pulling it open wide. He rushes over, opening the gate wider and pulling you inside with a practiced ease. His gaze sweeps over your injuries, concern etched deeply into his features. “Miss Kyle, you’re in quite a state!”

You manage a tired smile, carefully pulling the bouquet from your jacket. It’s in rough shape—torn petals, crushed blooms, and snapped stems. It looks like it’s on the verge of dying.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, wincing as you hold up the sad arrangement. “These… are for you. I, uh, ran all the way here. I hope I’m not too late for dinner.”

Alfred takes the flowers with a gentle smile, his concern momentarily overshadowed by a touch of warmth. “Thank you, Miss Kyle. However, I assure you it’s fine. The others have already started eating. They won’t mind if you—”

“It’s fine! This is just…,” you pause, pursing your lips as you scramble for a plausible excuse. You force a smile, shaking your head and pulling your jacket hood further over your face to hide the swelling bruise around one of your eyes. “Hah, you know how Gotham can be.”

Alfred gives you a sympathetic glance but says nothing more. “Very well. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

He guides you through the grand hallways, your footsteps echoing in the vast space and mingling with the soft murmur of conversation. As you reach the dining room, the door swings open, revealing a table set with care and already abuzz with activity. Selina, Bruce, and the others are seated, their animated conversations abruptly halting as they turn to look at you.

The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.

Selina’s eyes narrow into slits, her irritation barely concealed behind a strained, tight-lipped smile. Bruce’s complexion drains to an ashen hue, his eyes are wide as saucers, looking like he’s about to pass out from shock. He casts Selina a panicked glance, which she meets with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the mess. She looks utterly drained.

Jason’s eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, “What the fuck happened, kid?”

Next to him, Cassandra’s face is blank. Her fingers fidget with her utensils as she shifts her gaze rapidly between you and Selina, trying to piece together the fractured narrative from your battered appearance and Selina’s body language.

Bruce, who had been quietly observing, stands up and approaches you with slow, measured steps.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice a deep, resonant murmur. His hands, surprisingly gentle for their strength, settle on your shoulders. His eyes, usually as inscrutable as the dark depths of a stormy sea, now soften with the tenderness of a lighthouse guiding you through a night. “What happened, kiddo?”

There’s a strange, twisting sensation in your gut, flaring just beneath your ribs. A lump rises in your throat, and despite your best efforts to stay composed, your eyes begin to well up.

“I—” you begin, but the words falter. Your gaze drifts across the room and locks onto Damian’s eyes. They’re like emeralds, gleaming with a ferocity that seems to pierce through the walls you’ve built. Though he remains silent, his piercing look conveys a thousand unspoken thoughts and emotions.

A wave of shame is crashing into you, pushing your words back down. “Just… a rough night. Got into a fight.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow, and a wave of seething anger ripples through him. You try to ignore it.

“And who was this?” he demands, his voice a controlled, simmering growl.

“It’s okay. It ended up alright,” you try to shrug it off, forcing a casual tone. “Really, it’s not as bad as it looks. Just a run-in with some rando on the street.”

Everyone’s reactions vary, but it’s the look in Selina’s eyes that strikes you the hardest. Selina’s weary gaze peeks out from behind her hands, and the sight makes your face crumple.

“Pull off your hood,” Selina commands, icy and devoid of warmth. As she straightens in her chair, her blood-red nails dig into the mahogany table, turning her knuckles as pale as frost.

You keep your gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, scuffing the dried mud across its pristine surface. The silence in the room grows heavier with each passing second.

“Take off the damn hood and show me your face!”

Scowling and clenching your jaw, you yank the hood off. As it falls away, the full extent of your injuries is laid bare. Selina’s eyes widen as they take in the black eye, the bruises, and the cuts that mar your face. Her shock quickly morphs into a deepening scowl, her lips trembling as she fights to control her rising anger.

Everyone waiting for the outburst that is sure to follow.

Instead, Selina’s hands fly to cover her face, and she looks as though she might fall apart at any moment.

Bruce stares at you with something akin to horror.

Before anyone can react further, Damian abruptly stands, his chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the room.

His muttered words are barely audible, “I’ll take care of their injuries.”

Bruce moves back to Selina’s side, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he tries to offer comfort.

You can hear his soft, reassuring whisper as you walk away, “You can stay for the night. It’s too late to head out now. Give her some time.”

Selina, her face still pale and troubled, nods gratefully, her gaze tracking Damian as he helps you toward the manor’s second floor.

Damian ushers you into his room, the door closing behind you with a decisive click. He motions to the bed, and you sink onto it with a heavy sigh, the weight of the day dragging at your limbs.

You watch Damian retreat to the bathroom, your gaze lingering on the raw, bloodied skin of your knuckles, tinged with a gnawing sense of guilt.

Moments later, he returns with a first aid kit in hand. He kneels before you, reaching out to tug off your jacket, but you quickly shake your head, not wanting him to discover the suit beneath.

“I’m going to change in the bathroom,” you rasp. Damian silently nods, moving to his closet and pulling out one of his cotton shirts and boxers. He hands them to you with a resigned sigh and leans against the wall beside the bathroom door, giving you the privacy you need.

You take the clothes from Damian and head to the bathroom. As you push open the door, the dim light casts long shadows across the tiled floor. You deliberately avoid meeting your reflection in the mirror, not wanting to confront the full extent of the mess you’re in.

Once inside, you drop Damian’s shirt and boxers onto the floor, followed by your jacket, shirt, and pants. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound as it lands. With a deep, steadying breath, you begin peeling off your suit, slow and painstaking.

As the suit peels away from your skin, the blood and sweat that have soaked into it reveal the severity of your injuries. You wince as the cut on your side comes fully into view, a raw, angry red line that stretches from just below your rib cage to the middle of your side. It looks even worse up close—jagged and still oozing a bit despite the healing process.

You quickly change into Damian’s boxers, opting to keep the shirt off for now. You carefully bundle your suit and hide it under your jacket and pants, folding it as neatly as you can manage. With a deep breath, you step back into the room.

Damian’s eyes narrow as he assesses the cut on your side, now reduced to a four-inch scar due to your enhanced healing abilities. His gaze is hard, and you can almost see the weight of the lecture that would have come if he’d seen the injury in its original, more severe state.

“Sit down,” Damian finally speaks, his voice firm. He begins to open the first aid kit, movements slow. You drop your ruined clothes in a far corner and plop back down on his bed, rubbing your hands together nervously.

A beat passes as Damian finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the anesthesia, preparing to start stitching you up. You shake your head and push his hand away. “I can take it.”

“No,” Damian scowls and continues his work. He applies the anesthesia despite your protests, injecting it around the wound to numb the area. The needle pierces your skin with a sharp sting, followed by a dull, throbbing sensation as the anesthetic begins to take effect.

He sets the syringe aside and picks up a pair of sterilized tweezers and needle and thread. You watch as he carefully makes the first stitch, his hands steady and precise. The thread pulls tight, closing the wound with a series of tight, even stitches.

His long lashes flutter over his hooded eyes with each focused blink, his emerald gaze intense and filled with concern. The warm ambient light of the room casts a gentle glow on his deep tan skin, accentuating the chiseled contours of his face in a soft, almost ethereal light.

The beam of light highlights the light almost invisible scar that stretches from his cheekbone to his crooked nose, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbone and the strong, defined line of his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his full lips, noting the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

His hair is meticulously styled, with longer strands on top falling in inky, sleek waves across his forehead, remnants of gel catching the light. Damian’s thick, well-kept hair frames his face like brush strokes, adding to his strikingly handsome appearance.

Unable to hold yourself back, you raise a hand to cup his cheek. Damian hums, a low, soothing sound that rumbles in his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on your wound but tilts his head slightly to press a soft, tender kiss to your wrist.

With the stitches complete, Damian shifts his attention to bandaging the wound. He secures the bandage, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he smooths out the edges. Finally, he raises his head and meets your gaze, eyes conveying everything he can’t say aloud.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into Damian’s embrace, dropping your hands onto his shoulders. He responds instinctively, taking your hands in his. Large, calloused fingers gently lift yours, pressing a tender kiss to each of them before moving to softly kiss your bruised knuckles.

With a whisper of your name, Damian draws your hands over his shoulders. You smile, sinking deeper into his embrace, arms draped over his strong back. Damian holds you close, lifting you off the bed as he pulls you into a hug. His arms wound up around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.

“You know, trying to keep secrets from me is pointless,” Damian murmurs, a thinly veiled threat in his words peppering kisses up the side of your neck. “I am the son of the greatest detective in the world. I will find out what happened.”

You chuckle softly, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me hold you, you insufferable know-it-all.”

Damian’s grip tightens slightly. His forehead rests against yours, hearts swimming in his emerald eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate your nonsense. But seriously, you need to start talking.”

“Maybe later,” you reply, smiling against his shoulder. “Right now, I just need you.”

༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, it’s already 1 AM, but you and Damian are still awake, watching a show on his television. You’re curled up together on his bed, the flickering light from the screen painting the room in shifting hues of blue and gray, casting gentle shadows that dance across the walls.

You rest your head against Damian’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. Despite the late hour, the warmth and comfort of his embrace keep you from drifting off.

“This show is surprisingly bearable,” Damian murmurs.

You smile, nuzzling closer. “Told you it was worth a watch. Thanks for staying up with me.”

Damian’s fingers gently stroke your hair, each touch a soothing rhythm against your scalp. “Of course I’d do it, even if it means enduring your rather questionable taste in television.”

You scoff, pretending to be wounded. “Questionable taste? This show is a gem. You just don’t want to admit I’ve expanded your horizons.”

Damian raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes as he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Expanded my horizons? More like subjected me to a marathon of pedestrian entertainment.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite his words. The episode continues, the soft hum of the TV blending with the comforting rhythm of Damian’s breathing. The earlier tension and worry seem to dissolve into the background, replaced by a quiet intimacy.

Damian’s hand moves slowly, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumb begins to trace gentle, deliberate patterns on your back. You shiver slightly at the unexpected sensation, a delicate ripple of warmth spreading through you. His touch is soft yet firm, spelling out something with careful precision.

Though you don’t fully grasp the intent behind his touch, Damian’s fingers trace a delicate script across your skin, inscribing the words of Talia’s favorite Arabic love poem onto your back.

“My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty,” his thumb whispers across your skin, “my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is.”

The gentle pressure of his touch, the rhythmic way his thumb moves, slowly eases you into sleep. As each verse of the poem is imprinted on your skin, you find yourself drifting off, nestled against his chest. Damian tenderly presses his lips to your temple, wishing you sweet dreams.

༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 3:02 AM - Damian's Room, Wayne Manor.

Dick moves stealthily down the moonlit hallway, his footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. He reaches Damian’s door and pushes it open with a gentle nudge. Despite his careful approach, the old hinges protest with a loud, protesting creak, shattering the quiet of the night and immediately stirring Damian from his sleep.

The sudden noise jolts Damian awake, his reflexes kicking in. His eyes snap open, and in a heartbeat, his muscles tense as he instinctively tightens his protective embrace around you. The world outside fades as his focus zeroes in on the intruder.

Damian’s gaze narrows into a steely glare as he locks onto Dick. In a seamless, fluid motion, he throws aside the blankets and reaches beneath the bed, his hand closing around the hilt of a gleaming katana.

Without hesitation, he draws the blade with a swift, practiced flick, sending the katana arcing through the air toward Dick.

SHINK!

Dick stumbles back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. The katana thuds harmlessly into the wall beside him, its sharp edge embedded in the wood just inches from his head.

"Such a dramatic wake-up call… Good morning to you too," Dick grins, clearly used to this routine. “Alright. I know it’s late, but Selina is still up. I think she wants to talk to Y/N.”

Damian’s snarl is a low, dangerous rumble. “If you wake her, I will cut your hands off.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the threat. “Come on, baby bird. It’s not that big of a deal. Just let her know she’s needed.”

Damian’s eyes remain locked on Dick, a burning intensity that could have melted steel. Yet, after a long, tense moment, he grudgingly nods, the anger in his posture easing ever so slightly. With careful precision, he unwinds himself from the cocoon of blankets that envelops you, making sure not to jostle you awake.

!!!

But as Damian shifts, your senses stir, your eyes fluttering open to the dim light of the room. Your hand moves instinctively, reaching out to grasp Damian’s wrist, your fingers curling around him with a surprising strength. The sudden contact startles Damian, and he pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you.

Confusion and concern flash across your face as you murmur, “Dames?”

He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting a tender regret. “It’s okay. I apologize for waking you, but Miss Kyle is calling for you.”

You tense immediately, and Damian feels a pang of guilt unfurl in his gut for disrupting your rest.

You sigh softly and rise slowly, wincing slightly as though the wound still bothers you. Although your injury has healed, you keep up the act, unwilling to make it too obvious that you’re fine. You know you’re on thin ice, and the last thing you want is to make things more suspicious.

Damian instinctively moves to support you, his hand steadying your back with a reassuring touch as you rise. Dick, lingering at the doorway, casts an apologetic glance your way.

Damian helps you to your feet, his touch steady and reassuring. He retrieves his soccer jacket from a nearby chair and drapes it around your shoulders with a gentle, almost reverent touch. The jacket, well-worn and carrying the faint scent of his cologne, envelops you in its soft, reassuring warmth.

As you and Damian approach the door to his room, you hesitate and turn to him.

“I think I need to handle this alone,” you say quietly. “Can you wait here?”

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates, his protective instincts flaring.

“Are you sure?” he asks, running a hand up your back.

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yes, it’s better this way. I’ll be fine.”

Damian’s expression softens reluctantly. “Alright. I will be right here if you need me, beloved.”

You watch as Damian retreats to his room, his hand sliding around the katana lodged in the doorframe. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he withdraws the blade, the metal glinting momentarily before the door closes softly behind him. Dick, meanwhile, falls into step beside you and guides you down the corridor. His presence is steady and reassuring, a calming force in the tense atmosphere.

As you walk, Dick leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur. “Your mom’s been on edge all night. I’m… not sure what’s going on, but she made it clear she wanted to talk to you immediately.”

You nod, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. “I figured as much,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.

Dick’s expression turns serious, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You really gave us a scare,” he says, his tone softening. “Just remember, as a future Mrs. Wayne, we’ve got your back, no matter what.”

You chuckle softly, the warmth of his words offering a small measure of comfort. Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead as you reach the door to Selina’s room.

You turn the knob and push the door open.

Tall windows, framed by heavy drapes, stand slightly ajar, allowing the Gotham breeze to drift through the room. The curtains flutter rhythmically, whispering softly against the glass panes. Selina stands by the window, her silhouette etched sharply against the city’s glittering skyline. Her back is to you, tense and rod-straight.

The door clicks shut behind you, and she turns her head slightly, her gaze meeting yours with a cool, unreadable intensity.

"Are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

“I was just—” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I passed by, okay? I saw the situation and I had to intervene—”

Selina cuts you off with a sharp twist of her head. “I have eyes. I know what happened. I was informed about a tech shipment—an underground tech shipment by the docks. It was infiltrated. They found all the men webbed. Webbed. To the walls and floors. Don’t lie to me, honey.”

You sigh, the weight of the truth settling heavily on your shoulders. “Yeah. Okay,” you admit, your voice trembling despite your efforts to stay composed. “It… was planned.”

Selina’s eyes narrow dangerously as she strides towards you, heels clicking sharply against the floors. Her silhouette, framed by the soft, muted glow of the city lights filtering through the window, looms larger than life.

“Did you have a single clue as to whose men those were?” she demands, her voice slicing through the silence like a whip crack.

“I knew,” you say quietly, “I knew they were connected to Black Mask. It was a tip-off, and I thought if I could just—”

“You thought? You thought what? That you could handle it alone?” Selina’s eyes flash. “This isn’t some playground for you to experiment with your powers. You’re dealing with dangerous people—people who won’t hesitate to kill. And if you get yourself hurt—or worse—what good are you to anyone?”

You lower your eyes, feeling the sting of her words as if each one were a reprimand meant to cut deeper. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Sorry isn’t going to undo this mess!” she snaps, her hands gripping the edge of a table.

A hand tangles itself into her hair, strands of hair failing over her gaze. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through? What you’ve risked by acting recklessly? I’m not just scolding you because I’m angry. I’m scared. You’re my responsibility”

Your anger surges, and you shout, “I know, Mom! I know!” The words escape before you can stop them.

Selina’s expression shifts from anger to hurt, her eyes momentarily softening before hardening again. “Don’t take that tone with me."

“Excuse me?” you snap, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost something? Every time I bring up my mother, you just give me the bare minimum! I was going to start digging eventually.”

Selina’s eyes widen, a mix of hurt and frustration flashing across her face. “You think I’m holding back information from you? I’m trying to protect you! When your mother died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else I cared about get hurt."

“We’re so past that! I’m already knee-deep in this world,” you say desperately, your voice rising. “Mom, look at me! Just look! I have Spider DNA in my veins. My boyfriend is a vigilante. I’ve faced kidnappings and attempts on my life ever since I was born! You can’t keep treating me like a child who needs to be sheltered from reality.”

“I raised you! ” Selina screams, raw and primal, the words tearing from her throat with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned. “I gave up everything to keep you safe, to try and shield you from the worst parts of this life because I couldn’t bear to lose you too!”

Her voice shatters mid-sentence, the tears slipping from her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back. But she doesn’t stop, pushing through, her words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. “Every time you put yourself at risk, it’s like ripping open a wound that never heals! Don’t you get that? I can’t—I won’t—lose you, too!”

The raw emotion in her voice shatters your anger, melting it away like ice under a warm sun. You step forward, your movements gentle as you grab onto her shoulders, guiding her down into a chair.

“I know, Ma,” you murmur, your voice softening as you try to soothe her. “I know it’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

Selina breathes heavily, her anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “I know. I know you’ve been through so much. It’s just—I don’t want you to be a target for Black Mask. He’s a fucking monster, and I didn’t want you to be in his crosshairs.”

“I’m already in his crosshairs,” you whisper, bending down and reaching into your sock, where you’ve hidden the flash drive containing the information you retrieved from the warehouse. You had tucked it in earlier while changing in the bathroom.

“This,” you continue, holding up the small device, “is information on all his future activities. This was the mission I had earlier.”

Selina’s eyes widen in alarm, her fear quickly reigniting into fury. “Have you put no thought into the rules I set? Putting yourself in that kind of danger—”

“Danger I’m already in,” you cut her off. “Danger I’m about to face.”

"Y/N," Selina hisses out in warning, her eyes flashing dangerously, fangs glinting in the moonlight like a cornered cat.

“What? You think you can stop me?” you scowl as she stands. “I’m done playing by your rules. And if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to take you down.”

Selina’s eyes narrow, and a scornful smile twists on her lips.

"Prove it."

“What?” you manage to choke out.

Without a word, she launches herself toward you. Her foot whips out in a sharp, hard kick, sending you reeling backward. You hit the small balcony with a heavy thud, the harsh chill of the metal biting into your skin.

A pained grunt escapes you as you scramble to regain your footing, the cold air wrapping around you like a bitter embrace.

"Prove it, honey," Selina taunts, her voice dripping with contempt as she saunters toward you. She draws her claws with a slow, deliberate motion, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light. “Show me you’ve got some fight.”

Before you can fully recover, Selina is on you again. You barely evade her claws, landing heavily on the cold metal railings. The chill bites into your feet, but you push off the railing with a powerful leap, ready to re-engage.

Selina's leg sweeps toward you with brutal intent, aiming to knock you off balance. Reacting quickly, you shoot a web to the railing, swinging yourself back into position and avoiding her strike.

You retaliate with a hard kick to her chest. The impact sends Selina sprawling, her body slamming into the ground. She rolls to absorb the blow, springing back up.

Her eyes flash with anger as she leaps from the balcony’s ledge, executing a high-spinning kick. You twist in mid-air, grabbing the edge of the balcony to dodge her attack and pulling yourself back onto solid ground.

“If you try to stop me, if you try to control me, you’ll only push me further away,” you shout, breath coming in sharp bursts. “And I promise, I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got.”

"Then fight!"

As she swings at you again, you snatch her wrist, twisting it with a sharp, decisive motion. With a sudden push, you force her own claws against her, the cold metal slicing into her shoulder.

Selina hisses in pain, her body recoiling as she shoves you away. The razor edges of her claws carve a deep, angry line across her shoulder, a vivid stripe of crimson blooming against her skin and staining her outfit.

The sight of it catches you off guard, a sharp pang of guilt gripping you as her pain registers. You stand frozen, eyes locked on the streaks of red that disrupt the perfection of her skin.

“Mom—” your throat tightens. “I’m so—”

Selina starts to smile, a small, almost reluctant grin that slowly grows wider. The sight is so unexpected that it momentarily takes you aback. Then, much to your surprise, she begins to laugh—a rich, genuine sound filled with a mix of relief, amusement, and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“You think this is funny?!” you exclaim, bewildered and on the verge of anger.

Selina looks at you with a bitter smile, her laughter fading. She clutches her bleeding shoulder, her expression softening as she lets out a long sigh.

“You really are my daughter,” she murmurs.

You slowly ease from your defensive stance, confusion furrowing your brows.

“Alright, fine. Point proven,” she continues, voice gentler now. “Trying to cage you would only make you fight harder to claw your way out. Literally. I should know better than anyone how that feels.”

“O… kay?” you mutter, still grappling with the sudden shift in her demeanor. “So, I guess we’ve proven my point. What now?”

“Now,” she says slowly, “we talk. Like sane adults. No more clawing each other’s faces off.”

༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, both of you sit on the edge of the bed, cradling cups of warm jasmine tea from the tea set provided in your room—because, of course, each guest room in the Wayne Manor has one.

The steam rises gently from the cups, warming your fingers and offering a soothing contrast to the cool air. Selina sits across from you, her shoulder wrapped in bandages.

As you sit on the edge of the bed, you fill Selina in on everything that’s happened: the mugging with Morgan, the shooting when you saved her, and the whole "guy in the chair" thing. You’re honest about all the other stuff and the support you’ve received, but you leave out the fact that Tony Stark knows your secret identity, keeping that bit to yourself for now.

Selina stares at her cup of tea, her eyes wide with disbelief. The steady ticking of a clock fills the room, punctuating the silence as she processes what you've just shared.

“So, you’ve been pulling all the strings?” she asks. "Orchestrating all of this?"

You lick your lips, choosing your words carefully. Orchestrating is a strong word. More like everything is falling into place. But that does sound better.

“Something like that,” you say, nodding.

Selina blinks, taking a slow, contemplative sip of her tea. “Trying to rein you in would be a lost cause at this point,” she says, setting her cup down. “So, what exactly is the plan from here?”

You place your cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink, the porcelain’s gentle chime briefly breaking the quiet. “I need to dig deeper into Black Mask’s operations. With Morgan’s help, I’ve got the tech and the intel, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Selina nods, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, her gaze distant. “Batman will notice. The moment you step out into the city proper, you’re going to be a target. And once you’re on his radar, a contingency plan will be set.”

You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.

Selina’s gaze hardens. “And that’s what worries me. Bruce is just a man—no powers, no special DNA. But if he sets his mind to something, he can take anyone down. I don’t want you caught in that crossfire.”

You open your mouth, but Selina cuts you off.

“That’s why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

You glance at her, a thread of dread weaving itself into your thoughts. “Contingency plan?”

Selina nods, her tone heavy. “When I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got… sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

Selina’s expression softens slightly. “I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouse—somewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.”

“Metropolis?” you ask, your disbelief coming through with a half-smile. “Seriously?”

Selina winces, her expression sours. “Yes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.”

She cracks her knuckles, releasing some of the tension in her hands.

“It’s still an option if things get too messy. But for now, I’ll help you as much as I can here."

༻⊰───⋅

Damian walks up the stairs, his steps muted against the polished wood. In his hand, he clutches a thick blanket he’s taken from the storeroom. The absence of your presence has made his room feel uncomfortably cold, and he refuses to go back to sleep without you there.

As he nears the guest room where you and Selina are deep in conversation, he slows his pace, the soft hum of your voices drifting through the slightly ajar door.

He knows he should respect your privacy—a lesson he’s learned the hard way after being caught tailing you during patrols more than once. But his curiosity tugs at him.

He lingers outside the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, straining to catch snippets of the conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.

“That’s why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

The voices are muffled, but Damian can detect the guilt in Selina’s tone.

“Contingency plan?”

There was a pause.

“When I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got… sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

“I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouse—somewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.”

Damian freezes.

"Metropolis? Really?"

Selina’s voice carries a note of sorrow. “Yes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.”

Damian remains frozen in place.

Hunt? Who was hunting you down that made Selina think it was necessary to move rather than seek help from his father? Did she not trust Batman's abilities? Did she not trust his?

His grip on the blanket tightens until his knuckles turn white, the rough fabric digging into his palms like a searing brand. A bitter, acrid taste rises in his throat, mingling with the bile of frustration and helplessness.

Had he not proven his devotion enough? Each time he threw himself into the fray, each time he fought with everything he had, did she still doubt his ability to protect you? His every act of defiance, every sacrifice, should have been proof—shouldn’t it?

Did she think that running away was the answer? Did she believe that abandoning Gotham and leaving him and Bruce out of the fight was a better choice? Her secretive plans, her carefully crafted illusions of safety, were they really a solution?

Panic starts to claw at him, twisting his insides into a tight knot. Or maybe it was because of him?

Gods, he knew you were too good for him, but was he so inadequate that she thought hiding you away was the only option? The thoughts gnaw at him like ravenous insects, feasting on his insecurities. He can almost feel the raw, hot sting of failure as it eats away at him from within.

He remembers the first day he was left with Bruce, the way his own father looked at him, the way his brothers looked at him—like something about him was inherently wrong.

He was the outsider, the boy who had to claw and tear and rip his way into their world, proving his worth to a family he barely understood, a family that barely understood him.

Every mistake he made, every bout of uncontrollable rage, felt like blood on his hands—dark, sticky, and impossible to wash away. Another mark on his name.

And now, Selina’s confession feels like another blow to his fragile sense of self-worth. If even she doesn’t trust him, if even she thinks he’s not enough to protect you, what does that say about him?

His legs grow numb, his head spins with disorientation. The edges of his vision blur, and each breath comes in shallow, frantic bursts. He stumbles forward, driven by an overwhelming need to escape. His body moves on its own, carrying him towards his room.

Was he what Selina was protecting you from?

The thought strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling. The blood, the violence, the cold efficiency with which he was taught to kill—it all comes rushing back. Damian was trained to be an assassin, raised by the League of Shadows to be a weapon, a tool of destruction.

He feels numb as he stumbles into his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to comfort him. He collapses onto the floor, his legs giving way as he sinks to his knees. Clutching the blanket to his chest, he tries to draw some warmth from its fabric, but it feels like an inadequate shield against the cold, hollow emptiness that gnaws at him from within.

The voices of doubt and self-loathing grow louder, echoing in his mind. Damian doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the floor, trying to control his breathing. Time seems to blur, each second stretching into an eternity. His thoughts spiral, a maelstrom of fear and insecurity, until he hears the soft creak of the door opening.

You stumble in, and he freezes.

Your eyes widen as you take in his disheveled state, the blanket clutched tightly in his hands, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. You rush to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.

"Dames," you whisper. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to meet your gaze. He doesn't deserve to.

You hush gently, raising your hands to his face. "Can I touch you? You’re having a panic attack, baby."

He nods, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. Your hands are warm and steady as you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks.

"Look at me," you murmur softly. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."

He struggles to follow your instructions, his eyes locking onto yours. You take a deep breath in, exaggerating the motion, and slowly exhale. He tries to mimic you, his breaths hitching but gradually evening out.

"That's it," you encourage. "In and out, nice and slow. You're doing great."

Damian's grip on the blanket loosens slightly as he continues to focus on your breathing, finding a semblance of calm in the steady rhythm. Your presence anchors him, drawing him away from the chaotic storm in his mind.

"You’re safe," you whisper. "I’m here with you. Just keep breathing."

Gradually, the tension in his body begins to ease. He leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. The panic that had gripped him so fiercely started to ebb away, replaced by a fragile sense of security.

He sits there, the silence heavy around him, before his voice breaks through it, rough and raw. "Are you scared of me?" he asks.

The question hangs in the air. He doesn’t mention what he overheard, but the question reveals the depth of his doubt.

You gently brush a strand of hair from his face, your eyes soft with understanding. "Scared of you? Damian, I’m not scared of you."

He clenches his fists, the blanket still wrapped around his hands. "I… I can’t seem to do anything right. It’s like I’m always falling short."

"You’re not falling short," you reassure him softly. "You’re human, and you’re trying your best."

You lean in, your lips pressing against his in a tender, reassuring kiss. As you pull back, your eyes are filled with a deep sorrow.

"Can I ask what brought this on?" you whisper.

Damian takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the floor as he gathers his thoughts.

“I overheard part of a conversation between you and Selina,” Damian begins, his voice sharp and dripping with bitter resentment. “She spoke of a contingency plan involving an apartment in Metropolis and expressed concerns about someone hunting you down. If… If she felt the need to protect you from something by leaving, does that mean that I’m not enough? That I’m not capable of keeping you safe?”

His words come out with an edge. He meets your gaze with eyes darkened by hurt and anger. “I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could safeguard you, not merely another liability. But now it seems I’m just… inadequate. As if my dedication and efforts amount to nothing.”

You start to speak, but Damian interrupts. “Who’s hunting you down? What’s going on? Beloved, I’ve let you into my life—please, let me into yours.”

“I know, baby,” you say softly, running a hand through your tousled hair as you try to gather your thoughts. “Alright, okay, I need to tell you about something important. It’s about the spider vigilante, alright? There’s something you need to understand.”

“Again with this?” Damian scoffs, his hurt evident as he starts to rise from the floor. The movement makes you panic, and you grab his arm, pulling him back down.

“Nonono, wait,” you say urgently, trying to steady your voice. “Forget that for now. There’s something else I need to talk about—something personal. It’s about me, and I need you to listen.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay. There’s a lot more going on than you realize. I’m investigating Black Mask. He’s got some operation threatening Gotham, and it’s connected to everything that’s been happening lately. I’m trying to figure out what he’s up to, and…”

You pause, struggling to find the right words. “And I might have something to do with that vigilante spider you’ve seen around.”

Damian’s eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He stands there, his mind racing as he pieces together the implications of your confession.

The increased absences, the unexplained injuries—suddenly, everything starts to make sense. He can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. How did he not connect the dots? The vigilance, the secrecy—it all makes sense now.

You’re the one being hunted.

Brows threaded together, Damian steps closer, taking your hands in his. His fingers brush over your skin, gently massaging small circles.

“I understand,” he says with a grave tone. “I suspected as much. You don’t need to explain yourself, beloved.”

You smile in relief, misinterpreting his seriousness for support of your dual life as Spidey.

“I was going to tell you,” you say, your tone warm and reassuring. “Just… couldn’t find the right moment.”

Damian’s eyes soften, but a steely resolve glimmers within them as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering.

If the spider is the threat, then it’s the spider he’ll take down.

༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 7:53 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Hours later, Damian pulls up to the sleek, glass-fronted Stark Industries building. The structure towers above, its façade a mesmerizing expanse of reflective glass panels that catch and scatter the sunlight, creating a dazzling play of colors. A polished steel entrance welcomes visitors, a bustling crowd already walking in and out.

As the car comes to a smooth stop, he turns to you with a soft, reassuring smile. You reach over, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips.

His fingers gently brush your cheek as he murmurs against your lips, “Be careful.”

“I will,” you beam, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Promise.”

With one last lingering look, Damian reaches over to unlock the car door. You open it and step out onto the curb, unloading your bags. Damian gives you a final wave as he shifts the car into gear, gliding smoothly down the street and disappearing into the city’s bustling flow.

You clutch your bags tightly in your hands. Exhaustion pulls at your every muscle—patrol, the fight, and the travel have left you feeling like you're on the edge of collapse. After everything that went down last night, you can’t help but feel a bit relieved about the month off from school, courtesy of your internship.

Bags under your eyes betray the sleepless night, while the oversized shirt and sweatpants you’ve borrowed from Damian make you look more like you’ve just rolled out of bed than a professional intern.

Technically, you did roll out of bed, having snagged only about three hours of sleep.

How the hell did Batman and the Robins manage to juggle this kind of life week in and week out? Right now, you feel like death is just a breath away, waiting to claim you.

“Hey, kiddo!” Tony Stark’s voice calls out from a distance, cutting through your fog of exhaustion. “You planning to stand there and stare at the building all day?”

He steps out of his sleek convertible, tossing his keys to the valet with a flick of his wrist that’s more showmanship than necessity. As he strides towards you, his eyes do a quick sweep over your state.

“I offer you the top spot in my program, and this is how you show up?” Tony says, giving you a light shove on the shoulder.

You give a weary sigh and shuffle alongside him into the building. “Good to see you too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony continues with a smirk, “Don’t worry, you’re not the first intern to look like they’ve been dragged through a war zone.”

He leads you into the sleek, glass-walled elevator, pressing the button for the upper floors. The elevator hums softly as it ascends.

You turn to him, trying to muster the energy to keep up with his banter. “So, where’s Morgan?”

“Working on your new tech stuff,” Tony replies. “She’s buried under a mountain of circuits and cables. If you’re lucky, you might get to see her emerge from her tech fortress.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the upper floors of Stark Tower. Tony leads you down a pristine, modern hallway where glossy surfaces catch the ambient light, enhancing the tower’s futuristic vibe. He stops in front of a door adorned with a sleek plaque bearing your name.

You gawk at it, your sleep-deprived brain barely processing the sight. “Damn.”

Tony pushes open the door, revealing a spacious, elegantly furnished room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the cityscape, and the room is equipped with a large, comfortable bed, a sleek desk, and a cozy seating area.

“Welcome to your new digs,” Tony says, gesturing grandly. “I’d say it’s a bit of a step up from your old place. Given your current state, though, I’d suggest you take it easy for now. Rest up, and maybe try to look less like you’ve just walked off a horror set, okay?”

Despite your exhaustion, a small but genuine smile tugs at your lips as you take in the surroundings. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. It’s really… nice.”

With a casual salute, Tony heads towards the door. “Anytime. Now, go on and get some rest. I’ll let Morgan know you’re here. If she manages to claw her way out from under her tech mountain, she might swing by to say hi.”

༻⊰───⋅

A few hours later, you’re well-rested and dressed in a much more presentable outfit: a crisp white button-up shirt with the first few buttons undone, tucked neatly into flared slacks, and paired with white sneakers.

After one last check in the mirror, you give your appearance a satisfied nod, then rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. You head out of your room and make your way toward the elevator.

Pressing the button, the elevator doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss. You step inside and swipe your ID card against the scanner. The elevator's high-tech screen lights up, displaying a seemingly endless list of floor options. You whistle as you scan the array, finally selecting the tech room.

Just as the elevator begins its ascent, a voice suddenly speaks up, making you jump with a startled yelp.

“Good morning!” the voice says cheerfully. “Welcome to Stark Tower. How can I assist you today?”

You quickly recognize the voice as FRIDAY, the building’s AI system. You’ve read about it in papers and seen it on TV before. The holographic interface on the screen activates, displaying a friendly, animated avatar of FRIDAY. The AI greets you with a warm, digital smile and a cheerful tone.

“Oh. Hi!” you respond, a bit thrown off. “I’m, uh, just heading to the tech room.”

“Understood,” FRIDAY replies smoothly. “I’ve already noted your arrival. The tech room is on your left once you exit the elevator. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can help with, sexiest vigilante.”

You blink at the nickname.

“That’s definitely Morgan’s touch,” you mutter.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing a workshop that looks like it’s been hit by a tornado of technology. Equipment is strewn everywhere, and tangled wires snake across the floor. In the center of the chaos, a few remains of a fire extinguisher lie scattered. Morgan is crouched in the middle of the mess, her hair a wild tangle and her face streaked with grease and soot. She’s working intently, completely absorbed in her task despite the disorder around her.

You clear your throat, and Morgan looks up, freezing mid-action. Part of her shirt is charred, and a small flame flickers from one of the devices she’s holding.

“Let’s be honest,” she says, waving a wrench at you, “you’ve seen me in worse shape.”

Shaking your head, you step into the room.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” you remark, your eyes scanning the cluttered area.

Morgan quickly puts out the fire and brushes a few stray wires out of her path before standing up and stretching with a groan. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. Between the latest tech malfunction and the mini-explosion, it’s been one chaotic circus.”

“Should I even ask what set off the explosion?”

Morgan chuckles dryly, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. “Oh, just a little experiment gone wrong. Nothing major. Just some excitement to kick off the day.” She steps over to you, grabs a case from a nearby workbench, and hands it to you with a grin.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, as you take the case from her. With a click, you open it to reveal a pair of sleek, high-tech glasses.

Morgan plucks them from the case and holds them up with a grin. “For you. They’re packed with all sorts of features—real-time data, targeting assistance, and even advanced communication options. Basically, they’re your new best friend in the field.”

You slip the glasses on, adjusting them to fit comfortably. The world immediately sharpens, and a translucent display overlays your vision, showing various readouts and notifications. You gasp in awe, your amazement reflected in Morgan’s fond smile as she watches your reaction.

She then moves to grab another device—a metal-looking belt that covers your entire stomach. At its center is a spider emblem. She clasps the belt around your waist and gives it a reassuring pat.

“Tell it to go on,” Morgan instructs.

Confused, you turn to her. “Huh?”

“Just think of a suit wrapping around you and command it to do so.”

You give her a skeptical look but decide to give it a try. Closing your eyes for a moment, you focus on the idea of your suit materializing.

“Activate?”

Immediately, you feel a tingling sensation as nanoparticles begin to stream from the belt, enveloping your body. The sensation is oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a warm, secure embrace. The suit materializes in shimmering panels, stretching and shaping itself around your form. The glasses transform into a sleek helmet, molding to fit your head with a satisfying click.

The entire process takes mere seconds, and when you open your eyes, you’re fully suited up.

The suit fits perfectly. The color is a deep, vibrant red that covers the majority of the suit. Black accents trace intricate web patterns that start from the center of your chest and radiate outwards.

The chest emblem is a bold, black spider, its legs extending across your torso and seamlessly merging with the web patterns. The helmet, now a sleek, black mask with a smooth, glossy finish, features white eye lenses that glow faintly. The same high-tech display you saw in your glasses is now visible in the helmet.

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

 ༻⊰───⋅

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #selina kyle #bruce wayne #batman

484 notes · View notes

luffysprincess · 5 months ago

Text

LIE DETECTOR TEST : RENSUKE KUNIGAMI

⊹ summary : the blue lock boys are invited to take a lie detector test, but they’ve got to answer twitter’s unfiltered questions

⊹ pairing : rensuke kunigami x reader (established relationship)

⊹ wc : 740

⊹ warnings : fem!reader with she/her pronouns, reader is referred to as a “girlfriend”, unedited, suggestive/nsfw. MINORS DNI

⊹ a/n : kunigami was highly requested and I’m sorry for such a long wait but I finally got the motivation to write his part!! lmk who should be interviewed next <33 ALSO if anyone has a reblog of bachira’s version pls send me the link. I never saved it before I deactivated my previous acc TT

⊹ isagi’s version | bachira’s version

Kunigami’s never been hooked up to a polygraph before. He’s never been in an interview like this before either. When the team’s PR manager introduced the idea to the team, Kunigami was rather excited for something so fun and unique. It’d definitely get them more attention and hopefully expand their fan base. Not to mention, he used to love watching those ‘answering your tweets’ interviews so he was looking forward to being on the other end of the screen this time.

He, however, did not expect the fans to be so dirty minded.

“Twitter user @/rensuckmyclit asks ‘How do you feel about breeding and how do I get myself a rensuke creampie??’”

He shouldn’t be so surprised, not after hearing what Isagi and Bachira had to answer but he was hoping he’d get some tame questions. How in the hell was he supposed to answer this?

It didn’t help that he could hear the two men beside him laughing at his expression, one of shock, confusion and embarrassment. But he’s made his bed and now he’s gotta lie in it or however the saying goes.

“Yeah breeding is…nice, and uh you can’t?” his statement coming out as more of a question.

All heads in the room turn to Milo, the polygraph examiner, curious to hear his verdict but are met with an old man frowning at his machine. “Inconclusive.”

“Maybe try saying more than just two words, idiot,” Isagi sarcastically adds as he punches his arm.

“Don’t bother lying, Milo’ill catch ya,” Bachira adds, grinning mischievously at the ginger.

“I’ll repeat the question for you: ‘How do you feel about breeding and how do I get myself a rensuke creampie??’”

“How are you even saying that with a straight face?!” Kunigami questions. “Ugh nevermind.…Breeding is uh…a yes for me.”

“So you’re into it?”

“Yes I’m into it,” he sighs.

“Milo?”

“Truth”

“And as for the second part of the question—god I can’t believe I’m about to say this on camera—,” Kunigami drags his hand down his face and mutters out the rest of the answer, “only Y/N gets a ‘rensuke creampie’.” He uses his free hand to form air quotes for the embarrassing term.

“Y/N?” the interviewer questions.

“My girlfriend. Now can I get the next question before these two pass out? Megs looks like he forgot how to breathe– dammit its not that funny!” Hearing their usually collected teammate lose his temper over this only released another wave of cackles from the boys, contagious enough that even the polygraph examiner and the interviewer couldn’t hold back their chuckles. Kunigami can only huff in embarrassment as he waits for what’s next.

“Okay, okay… our next question is from twitter user @/kunigamisrightasscheekhairs.”

“What the fuck are these handles?”

“I think they’re creative,” Bachira snickers.

“They ask ‘What’s the weirdest thing you’ve been asked to sign?’”

Kunigami takes a second to reflect on all his fan interactions. Frowning, he hums in thought and just when he thinks he’s got answer he remembers an even odder instance. On the outside he looks like a fish opening and closing its mouth with nothing ever coming out until finally he sits up straighter to respond, “Someone once asked me to sign her tits.”

“What’s the verdict Milo? Is he telling the truth?”

“Yup.”

“Well did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sign the girl’s tits.”

“I don’t need to answer that so I won’t” Kunigami smirks at Isagi feeling smart but the blue eyed man just smirks back, “Well that just makes it seem like you definitely did. I wonder if Y/N knows about this. Should I tell her?”

Isagi is met with Kunigami’s playful glare and a series of curses thrown at him, all of which will be censored out when this episode is posted on BlueTube.

However, the room is silenced when Kunigami goes serious. He turns to the camera with a straight face, “I’m only admitting this because I don’t want any false accusations of me cheating or anything going around. Yes I signed her tits. And yes Y/N knows about it. They were her tits. And because I know one of these two idiots will ask, yes we were dating at the time.”

“All true,” the examiner confirms but one look at Kunigami’s face would be more than enough to know if he was really telling the truth. Afterall, his face was turning redder than his hair.

taglist: @kazuubaby @satanblessing @saiki-enthusiast @nnasv @nymphsdomain @mitzukichan18 @celestair @ilovechuuyaa @mortallytenaciouskoala @tsumu-senpai @hweartiish

#blue lock x reader #blue lock #blue lock anime #kunigami rensuke #bllk kunigami #kunigami x reader #blue lock kunigami #kunigami smut #rensuke kunigami #bllk x reader #blue lock isagi #blue lock bachira #bllk lie detector series

752 notes · View notes

unknown7s · 4 days ago

Text

Can I just say that I really fucking HATE how the majority of the Arcane fandom praising Season 2 is deeply in the mindset of Piltover in reality? Like, it's not even funny, and I don't know where to begin.

I'll just start with Silco because he's this huge metaphorical character who is clearly written as the embodiment of a long list of sociopolitical agendas in the real world. And before I start, pardon my English, since it's not my first language.

I know y'all in the Anglo-American sphere tend to focus more on classism, inequality and police brutality theme. But the way I see it, THAT and every single dialogue plus the specific word choice of Silco & Sevika literally SCREAMS of postcolonial discourse (I guess F. Fanon is most well-known to y'all) and even some part of M. Foucault's philosophy, etc. I'm writing "etc." because the list will go on forever if I describe all these creepy historical parallels between the depiction of Zaun's internal conflict and what real countries that have been (or still are) colonies went through, and what real colonizer propaganda looked like during that time—like how those characters who fight for the nation's independence are the big bad villain and psychotic monsters who need "redemption arc" therapy, while those who cooperate with the oppressors are the good-hearted familial heroes of this story.

So upon reflection, if this fandom were to be a collective intelligence, we should have asked ourselves, "Is this show truly not problematic for portraying such a character as villainous?" and thus, "Is this show thematically implying far-right propaganda?" even before Season 2 presented us with this insane plot that glamorized the militaristic fascist aristocrat proclaiming martial law as a 'romantic revenge arc'.

But what did the majority of the fandom do since 2022? They were so busy shitting on this dead villain, claiming he has done so much wrong that he doesn't even deserve to be praised as a character. So instead of trying to understand where this character's point of view is coming from, they blindly hate him to the point where they are now fabricating a list of crimes that he didn't even commit, editing false information on the fandom wiki profile.

What's more frustrating to me is that I thought the problem was media illiteracy all along, but oh no, I was being way more optimistic than the reality. Now that I’ve read all these interviews from the showrunner and main writer—Linke and Overton—I get the sense of why Season 2 turned out like that. The more they babble on about this show, the clearer it becomes that they don't even acknowledge how messed up their political views are, which are so far-right. Taking the seemingly-centrist line doesn't make you fair, you're just passively siding with the oppressors. And lesbian sex scene doesn't make this show "progressive", in fact, hiding oppressor fantasy behind a rainbow flag makes it even more treacherous.

So yeah, I think critical voices should be much louder than this, but watching the majority of this fandom neglacting problems only to praise the show? I think my hope for humanity kind of get lost more and more as time passes, lol.

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane critical #arcane criticism #arcane writing #arcane thematic problem #silco #vander #jinx #vi #sevika #ekko #caitlyn

214 notes · View notes

deputyrook · 1 month ago

Text

18+ - Spite/Rook/Lucanis - Playing Cards

This was supposed to be a sweet romantic conversation where they define the throuple and it turned out to be... extremely filthy smut. Uh, sorry. And/or enjoy.

A03 Link. Female Rook. 18+ Spite/Rook and Spite/Rook/Lucanis. DAV spoilers.

---

"It's all right if you fall asleep, you know. Spite and I can... play cards or something," Rook brushes her fingers through Lucanis' hair, combing through it gently. He sighs, a satisfied, happy noise, but the corner of his lip tugs down.

"I do not think he wants to play cards," He murmurs quietly. Rook's hand stills in place. Cracking an eye open, Lucanis peers up at Rook, shifting and pushing himself up on an elbow.

"We haven't really talked about him. Whether he's okay with..." She gestures between them. Rook had taken the outburst of Spite's wings wrapping around them as a sign that Spite was at least fine with what was happening, if not particularly enthusiastic. Maybe she'd been wrong?

"Okay is one way to put it," Lucanis mutters with an annoyed huff. He's not meeting Rook's eyes, instead tracing circles on her inner thigh in a way that makes heat shoot up her spine. He'd just finished fucking her into her chaise- making love to her, really. Her legs will still weak from it, and already she can feel herself starting to ache for more.

Dangerous.

"Lucanis?" She asks tentatively, by way of seeking further explanation.

"He wants you, Rook. Has wanted you. For as long as I have," Lucanis lays back down on her thighs, closing his eyes, "And you know, I'd wanted you for a long time."

"How long?" She asks, teasing, because she has to know.

"Since we got coffee in Treviso," He answers, "Maybe since you entered the Ossurary, to be honest. But Maker, you made this little noise of pleasure when you took your first drink of that cioccolata calda that went right to my cock," Lucanis groans, just from the memory, and presses his fingers against Rook's hips. "I hadn't felt anything like that since well before I was locked up. It tore right through me. I wanted you then," his voice goes soft, "But it didn't take long before I realized that I wanted more than that, too."

Okay, hoo, stop getting distracted, Rook. "And... Spite?"

"He didn't know what it meant, at first. But he caught on quick," he sighs, "I was thinking about you a lot. About all the things I wanted to do to you. With you. Some of it bled over to him, I think."

Rook smiles at him, a careful, soft look. "So... Spite wants me too. Sexually. How do you feel about that?"

Lucanis groans, a different kind of noise from the one that he'd made only a few moments before. "How do I feel? How do you feel?" He pauses for a long moment, and Rook can only assume Spite is saying something in his ear. "Yes, yes. I know you wouldn't hurt her." Another long pause, and Lucanis adds a stern, "Hey."

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't consider having another... person in the relationship," She admits. This is unsteady ground, and she wants to be careful not to offend either Lucanis or Spite. She wants both of them to be alright with their relationship, and doesn't want either of them to feel hurt or left out. "But he does share your body, with no indication that'll change any time soon. There's a good possibility you'll be together for the rest of your life, Lucanis. So in a way, he'll have to be a part of the relationship... in some capacity, anyway."

She takes a moment to think. How does she feel about Spite? About Spite, wanting her? Embarrassingly, she finds the thought leaves her warm. How different would be be from Lucanis? She swallows.

Lucanis sits up fully then, moving to take his place on the chaise beside Rook. He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, cupping her face in his hands.

"When you were gone... Spite was devastated. I mean really torn up about it. I hadn't realized how much he liked you too- really liked you, until then," Lucanis seems to take a moment to collect his thoughts, "Ever since he pulled you into the fade to get you to deal with my- our issues, we've felt more like partners. If you're not averse- if the concept doesn't frighten you-"

"You have never frightened me," Rook says, looking him in his eyes, "Either of you."

Lucanis smiles then, relieved, and kisses her gently. When he pulls back, it's seems he's gathered the courage to finish his sentence.

"I don't mind sharing, if it's the three of us," He finishes, a little nervously, "I don't know exactly what it will mean..."

"But we can figure it out. Together." Rook smiles too then, taking his hands in hers and pressing another kiss against his mouth, slow and deep.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn't stay that way. At first, the press of Lucanis' mouth against hers is languid, as though they have all the time in the world. And then, a shudder seems to run through Lucanis. And he is pushing forward, biting at Rook's lip in a way that makes her gasp in surprise.

Lucanis- no, Spite- seems to want to devour her. He hisses against her mouth, his kisses clumsy and demanding. Rook can barely breathe he's so insistent, licking into her mouth as his hands grab her hips and pull her body closer to him. Spite's eyes flash a brilliant violet, wings in a matching shade unfurling out from behind him.

"Wanted this," Spite groans against her mouth, biting at Rook's bottom lip in a way that makes her weak, "Wanted you."

"I wanted you too," She admits, and he moans, a broken noise of need.

"Smell so good. Like caramels and jasmine and Lucanis," He groans again, and the fact that Spite seems to not only be aroused by her, but by Lucanis as well, makes Rook's skin feel alight with heat.

"Are you going to take me, Spite?" She asks, her voice breathy with need as she wraps her arms around his neck, "Are you going to make me feel good? I want to make you feel good, too."

His lips press back to her skin, this time against the column of her neck. Where Lucanis had kissed with reverence, Spite bites and nips and sucks until Rook is twisting and moaning in his arms.

When Spite leans back slips a hand under the waistband of her panties, Rook realizes that she's still an absolute mess from her earlier round with Lucanis. Rook's cheeks burn as Spite drags two fingers along her slit, slicking them with both her and Lucanis' cum. When he pulls his hand back, he looks at his wet fingers with interest, his pupils blown wide and dark.

Grabbing his wrist, Rook raises the fingers to her mouth and drags her tongue along the digits, licking them clean. She pops his fingers into her mouth, sucking at them and moaning around his hand, keeping her eyes locked on Spite's the whole time. He shudders, taking his other hand and dragging it down the back of Rook's head in a strangely gentle gesture.

When Rook draws the fingers out of her mouth, Spite uses his free hand to yank her underwear down and pull it off of her. He is already so hard- despite her and Lucanis having finished not that long ago, Rook notes- and with a fluid motion, he presses his two fingers back to Rook's cunt. The fingers enter her easily, as wet as she is, and push Lucanis' cum deeper insider of her. With a surprisingly careful motion, he pumps his fingers into her, curling them inside as he'd watched Lucanis do earlier in the evening.

Rook whimpers, a high keening sound, and Spite tilts his head in interest at the noise. This time, when he withdraws his hand, he brings it to his own lips. Keeping eye contact as she had with him, he sticks his own fingers into his mouth, sighing in pleasure around them as he tastes both Lucanis and Rook together.

"More," He groans. Before Rook can even fully register what he's doing, Spite has laid on his stomach and settled himself between her legs, and is licking a long line down the length of her cunt. She nearly squeals, the sensation so hot and her body so oversensitive, and Spite huffs out a laugh in response against her skin.

"Going to want to taste you. Forever," He moans against her cunt, wrapping his arms around her legs to keep them splayed open for him. He buries his face between her thighs, mouthing against her cunt like he really is trying to devour her.

The sensation is almost too much. If not for Spite holding her legs in place to keep her from squirming, she'd be writhing against his mouth. Holding her as he is, his mouth is an onslaught against her, a torrent of pleasure she has no respite from, that has her quickly approaching orgasm.

"Spiteeee," Rook whines, "Fuck me, fuck me, please."

"No," Spite responds, grinning against her skin, "Later. Want this. Taste."

He returns to eating her out, his nose nudging against her clit back and forth, and Rook can't help it. She presses against his face desperately, and when she notices that Spite is grinding his pelvis against the chaise, too horny and turned on just from eating her cunt to stop himself from rutting against it-

She comes with a cry, throwing her head back as the orgasm rockets through her. It shivers through her body, leaving her feeling boneless and satisfied, and Spite watches her come undone with no small amount of pride.

"Now," He says, still grinning as he pulls back, his eyes hungry with need as they rake over her body. "Now?"

"Please," Rook repeats, opening her thighs to him, and beckoning him forward.

Spite's hands fly to his pants, but despite the lack of a belt, he seems to struggle with undoing the fly and button. For just a second, Spite's frustration gives way to amusement, as more assured hands deftly and confidently undo the pants.

"There you go," Lucanis groans, sliding his pants and underwear down his hips. His cock, already red and leaking and so hard, springs out. "You know, I really underestimated how hot it would be to watch him make you come. You are such a mess."

"Fuck, I know," Rook whimpers, reaching out, "Come on, please."

Lucanis chuckles, before violet once again overtakes the colour of his irises. Spite growls, crawling up over Rook, until his cock is flush against her cunt. Unable to stop himself, he slides it against her folds, teasing her by grinding his cock against her cunt without entering her.

"Oh, Maker-" Rook groans, rocking her hips up. His cock is slick with her now, and strands of hair wet with sweat from exertion fall onto his forehead. Finally then, he presses against he entrance, and pushes in, drawing out a long, broken cry from Rook.

"Yes," Spite groans out, "Yes, yes! So good."

Unlike Lucanis had, Spite doesn't wait until she's used to the stretch of his cock to start moving, or take things slow. But at this point, Rook doesn't need him to. What she wants is to be fucked within an inch of her life, and Spite seems to read her mind.

As soon as he's fully inside of her, he pulls out almost all of the way, and then snaps his hips, driving his cock back inside of her. He fucks her deep, his hands on her hips, keeping her in place.

The sounds coming out of Rook's mouth are entirely outside of her control. She doesn't even know entirely what she's saying at this point. She's keening, whimpering out the words, "Yes" and "Spite" and "Pleasepleaseplease." Everything she's worried about, everything that could happen the next day, seems a million miles away. Here, she's able to fall apart completely.

After one particularly loud moan, Spite pulls out, flips her onto her stomach far too easily, and enters her from behind.

Rook presses her face into her pillow, muffling a guttural sound pulled from her lips. From behind, she feels Spite grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head up.

"No. Want to hear you," He grunts, rutting back into her. She gasps, her cunt clenching around his cock, so close to coming again as he fucks her into her chaise. She can tell he's close himself by the stutter of his hips, and the way that words begin to slip from his lips. Snaking a hand to her clit, she grinds forward against her fingers.

"Mine," He breathes, punctuating the word with a thrust. "Mine, mine. Ours."

And with that word- the feeling of her hair, wrenched in Spite's grip, his body leaning over hers, and his cock pressing so deep inside of her- Rook comes for a second time. Spite follows her, spilling into her with a surprised gasp and a long groan.

She collapses onto the chaise, face down, and Spite lays heavy across her back.

"You're heavy," She complains after a long moment. Spite makes a noncommittal noise, and doesn't move.

But then, with a sigh, Spite rolls off of her. It takes Rook a second to realize that Lucanis is back in control, as he reaches out to smooth down her hair where Spite had grabbed.

"That was good?" He asks, a bit tentative. Rook turns and looks at Lucanis, a complete, bleary eyed mess.

"Yeah. But if you ask for a turn now, my legs might give out completely," She answers with a lazy grin. Lucanis grins back at her, eyes shining with affection.

"Just a kiss, then?" He asks, and Maker, Rook could never deny him. Pushing herself up, she kisses him softly, and he sighs against her mouth, contented.

"You think he liked it?" Rook asks, and Lucanis rolls his eyes.

"If he hadn't fallen asleep immediately after finishing, I think he'd be back in between your thighs right now. I'm pretty sure that if you hadn't been more insistent he fuck you, he'd have stayed there until I couldn't speak the next morning." Lucanis rubs circles into Rook's back, and with a soft chuckle, they both settle back onto the chaise. Rook yawns, pressing her head against Lucanis' chest.

"I think I might sleep through the final fight tomorrow. This is too comfortable. Sorry, Minrathous," She mumbles, already feeling her eyelids droop.

Lucanis laughs, and she can feel the rumble of it as she lays on his chest.

"Tomorrow night, we will all be back here again. I will kill a God to ensure it. Multiple, if I must," He whispers, before they drift off to sleep.

#spite dragon age #rook x spite #rook x lucanis #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis x rook #lucanis x spite #dragon age #dav spoilers #dav #dragon age the veilguard #da: the veilguard #i have no idea if this is in character im so sorry #my writing

384 notes · View notes

kingofbodyrolls · 4 days ago

Text

Stuck in a Cave (m) | pjm

Trapped in a snowbound cave over the Christmas holidays with your long-time rival, Park Jimin, you're forced to face the simmering feelings you've both been burying beneath layers of denial. As the cold closes in, unspoken desires begin to thaw, setting your hearts ablaze in a season meant for warmth and wonder.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: christmas!au, holiday!au → Trope: enemies to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / comedy / forced proximity → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 9k → Warnings + triggers: unprotected sex in the form of oral (female and male receiving), fingering, breast play, nipple play, dry humping, kissing, creampie, squirting, biting, slapping, multiple orgasms, a little bit exhibitionism, avalanche and being buried in the snow. → Author’s note: I KNOW, I KNOW—I totally said the last one was the last one, but surprise! Here we are again! 😂 Look, I’m not even gonna jinx it by saying this is the actual last one, because let’s be real, who knows? Maybe this hilariously chaotic couple will spark something in me again when I least expect it. But, uh… don’t place any bets on it, okay? I actually wrote this back in November (along with all my December posts—productive queen energy, am I right?). As for when I’ll write again? TBD! But in the meantime, I really, really hope you enjoy this little gem 🫶✨ → Read the spoiler? [group chat texts] → Read on AO3? [link]

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a mini series ‘The Winter Collection’, but it can be read as a stand alone (as can all the installments in the series).

“Tell me again why we’re trudging up these stupid mountains?” you groan, each step heavy with snow and the weight of too many unspoken things. Your boots feel like lead, sinking deeper into the cold ground, and the cabin—warm, distant, almost mythical now—is but a tiny speck on the white horizon.

“Because we can’t just hibernate in that cabin all day,” Jungkook sing-songs, absurdly gleeful, his cheeks flushed pink by the crisp air, his laugh echoing against the snow-covered pines. You try not to roll your eyes, picturing instead the warm glow of the fireplace, the flickering shadows, and your room… the one you share with Jimin. You chase away that thought, try to ignore how close he walks ahead of you, his snowsuit doing nothing to hide that damned perky ass. The world is a cruel place, you sigh.

If only your heart hadn’t shifted. He’s still your mortal enemy—or so you keep telling yourself. But ever since that night in the cabin, when he stumbled on you tangled in sheets, with your sparkly dildo deep inside your cunt… something different stirred. The hatred’s still there, raw and defiant, but now it’s wrapped in something softer, warmer, and maddeningly confusing.

“Keep up, Y/N, or are those legs of yours already giving out?” Jimin turns, his eyes glinting, tongue poking out in that infuriating way, and a flush creeps up your cheeks. It’s his fucking fault your legs feel like jelly. Him and his insufferable grin, his teasing remarks, and… his stupid, perfect, cock. No, you’re not in love, you tell yourself.

You scoff, forcing a smirk. “Oh, is that a volunteer to carry me the rest of the way?” you toss back. “But then again, I doubt you’re strong enough,” you add, savoring the flare of irritation in his eyes. Your friends, accustomed to this fiery dance between you and Jimin, fall into a knowing silence. They know the drill—the barbs, the heat, the grudging laughter—all too well. They’ve long stopped trying to intervene, though sometimes, in rare moments, you suspect they see right through you both.

Jimin’s gaze sharpens, his smirk dropping. “Oh, we both know I could carry you,” he says, his voice low, “but since you’re such a brat about it, I won’t.”

You cross your arms, fuming like a child denied their favorite toy. “Fine!” you spit, your voice sharper than the biting wind. “I don’t want you touching me anyway!”

Jimin leans in with a wicked grin. “Not what you said last night…” he murmurs, the sing-song lilt in his voice hitting you right in the chest. You hate that he knows how to rile you up, that he says it so casually, right in front of everyone. The knowledge that they all know—their sly looks, the teasing remarks, even Seokjin’s smirk as he tossed you a pre-packed box of condoms when you arrived at the stupid cabin. Namjoon’s knowing grin, Taehyung’s shoulder-pat for Jimin, Yoongi’s dry threat to make your lives hell if you wake him up again…

Yes, they’re a chaotic bunch, your friends. And Jimin? He’s chaos itself.

Snowflakes begin to fall, delicate and silent, each one like a whispered secret from the heavens. They drift lazily at first, dancing on the wind before settling on your outstretched palm. You pull off your glove and catch one, marveling at its intricate beauty before it melts against your warm skin, leaving only a glistening trace.

“Let’s keep moving—we’re getting to the top,” Jungkook calls out, his eyes bright with the thrill of the climb. Yoongi only grunts, casting a longing glance back toward where the cabin lies hidden, nestled far below. You can almost read his mind; he’d probably be back there with you now if it weren’t for Jungkook’s threat to cut the cabin heat unless every last one of you joined him on this “bonding adventure.” What a tyrant, you think with a wry smile.

“The top?” you nearly yell, unable to believe his determination. Your legs ache, every muscle weighed down by the stiff bulk of your snowsuit. Sure, it keeps the cold at bay, but you feel like you’re dragging half the mountain with you. And to think—once you reach the summit, you’ll have to make the long descent all over again. You didn’t pack for this kind of endurance test; a few snacks, a water bottle, and a first aid kit are all that line the bottom of your backpack.

“We’ve been going since dawn! We started before the sun was even up,” you pant, each breath puffing out in frosty clouds.

Jungkook just grins, a giddy light in his eyes. “But wasn’t the sunrise worth it?” he asks, and you reluctantly admit that he’s right. The first rays of morning had painted the snow in hues of rose and gold, spilling across the horizon and seeping into the untouched drifts like watercolor on silk. It had been beautiful—almost painfully so. But not as beautiful as the warmth of the bed you’d left behind, or the person you’d woken up next to, making you question things you’d rather not dwell on.

As you trudge forward, the landscape transforms around you—trees bowed under the weight of snow, deer darting into the thicket, startled by your approach. Occasionally, you catch sight of dark caverns nestled into the mountainside, and one finally catches your eye. “Can we rest in there?” you ask, pointing.

Jungkook sighs, reluctantly nodding. “Fine, but only long enough for a snack and some water.”

You and Yoongi both exhale in relief, each of you slinging off backpacks as you duck into the small, cold shelter of the cave. Jimin strolls past, tossing a wink your way, and you can’t help but curse inwardly at how infuriatingly good he looks in that white and blue snowsuit, his blonde hair practically glowing against the muted backdrop of snow and rock. No, you tell yourself, forcing your gaze elsewhere. You will not let him get under your skin. Not today.

Inside, you settle on the rocky ground, pulling out a protein bar with trembling fingers, too cold to bother savoring the taste. Outside, the snow has thickened, the wind howling as it funnels through the cave’s mouth, whipping icy tendrils against your skin. You shiver involuntarily, glancing at the darkening sky. The storm clouds gather, swirling overhead, and the wind feels more menacing now, as if urging you back to the cabin’s warmth.

“The weather’s getting worse—don’t you think we should head back?” you ask, casting an uneasy glance at the others, but Jungkook shakes his head resolutely. You can’t fathom his determination, his relentless drive to conquer the mountain as if it’s some mythical prize that only he can claim.

Reluctantly, you pull on your goggles, shielding your eyes against the stinging snow, and follow the group out into the blizzard’s embrace. The world around you is pure white chaos, the snowflakes swirling in a furious dance, but somehow, you keep moving, each step drawing you higher into the snowstorm.

You don’t know how long you’ve been trudging forward, but when you glance back, the cabin is nowhere in sight, swallowed by snow and distance, leaving a hollow ache in your stomach. The snowfall thickens, shrouding the world in a relentless white, pulling you back to memories of the snowstorm you braved with Jimin on the way to Seokjin’s Christmas party. You shake off the thought and face the group, voice firm and brooking no argument. “I can’t see a thing. I’m done—let’s turn back.”

Yoongi sighs with relief, already turning around. “I’m with you,” he mutters, not hiding his frustration.

Jungkook, still a stubborn figure cutting through the snow, scoffs. “What, are we scared now?”

You let your words fly over the whistling wind, fury sparking in your eyes. “Call it scared if you want, but I’m not planning to be buried out here. It’s not safe.”

Namjoon checks his phone, frowning as he reads, “The weather app says a storm’s coming—and it’s not letting up for days.”

A heavy silence falls, filled only by the wailing wind and the cold sting of snow against your face. Another storm. Your heart sinks.

“Told you this was a mistake,” Yoongi grumbles.

Jungkook finally concedes, his tone subdued. “Alright. We’ll head back.” Despite his daredevil spirit, he knows there’s no pushing through this. Relief flows through you at the thought of the warm cabin, the crackling fire, and eggnog shared between friends.

As you start the descent, birds flit across the white-gray sky, a fleeting touch of beauty against the coming storm. But a strange creak rises over the howl of the wind. An uneasy chill runs through you. “Did anyone else hear that?”

“What sound?” Taehyung shouts, eyes squinting as he tries to make out shapes in the swirling snow.

The wind muffles it again, but then—another deep, ominous creak, louder this time. Everyone freezes, and in the silence, you hear it: a faint roar that steadily grows, like a beast roused from its slumber. The snow shifts, and dread settles like lead in your gut.

“Let’s hurry,” you say, voice tense, and everyone quickens their pace. You and Jimin are at the back, struggling against the thickening storm. Then it comes again, an unmistakable, thunderous rumble echoing down the mountainside. You whip around in time to see it: a churning cloud of snow cascading toward you.

“Avalanche!” you scream, panic seizing you as the world erupts into chaos. The group scatters in every direction, shouts lost in the storm, but Jimin’s hand is on yours, firm and unyielding as he drags you down the slope, weaving through trees with urgent speed. The ground trembles underfoot, and you feel the roaring snow closing in, seconds from swallowing you whole. Breath ragged, heart pounding, you realize with icy dread that this might be the end.

But just as the avalanche draws near, a dark shape looms before you—a rocky cave. Jimin pulls you inside, the world plunging into blackness just as the avalanche thunders past, shaking the walls around you. You collapse, gasping, Jimin’s hand steady against your trembling glove covered fingers. Snow clogs the cave entrance, sealing you in darkness, yet somehow his presence keeps you grounded, the steady rhythm of his breath slowing your racing pulse as silence falls once more.

“Jimin?” you whisper into the dark, your voice a soft tremor against the silence.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies, though his tone is taut, barely concealing the edge of panic. The tension in his voice mirrors the tightness building in your chest.

“I think… we’re stuck.” The words fall out softly, as if speaking them too loudly might somehow make them more real.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing at the snow-packed entrance, his expression tense and shadowed. “Our way out’s completely blocked.” Slowly, as your eyes adjust, his face emerges from the shadows—concern etched into every line, vulnerability softening the usual spark in his eyes.

“It’s alright. The others will find us soon.” You try to sound confident, to reassure him, even as a chill of doubt creeps through you.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice carrying the barest hint of uncertainty.

A moment of heavy silence passes before you offer, “We could try digging us out. Fresh snow should be lighter, easy enough to move.”

But Jimin just sighs, moving deeper into the cave before sinking down onto the rough, cold ground. “Too tired,” he murmurs, reclining against his backpack and looking up at the darkness above.

You join him with a huff, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones as you sit beside him. “Yeah, me too.”

He shifts slightly, making room as you slide closer, the cold penetrating even through your thick snowsuit. “Maybe we just… wait,” he suggests, his voice low and resigned, and you nod, grateful just to have him beside you.

In the quiet of the cave, you take out your phone, pull your gloves off, fingers stiff from the cold as you type a quick message to the group chat. Is everyone okay? Can anyone help us get out of this cave? You hit send, hoping the signal reaches, hoping that somehow, somewhere, they’re safe and will see your message.

Time passes, an endless stretch of waiting in the darkness. The cold presses closer, burrowing deep, and you pull your knees up, trying to conserve warmth. “It’s so cold,” you whisper, teeth chattering.

“Yeah,” Jimin murmurs, slipping an arm around your shoulders, drawing you against him. His warmth radiates through the layers of clothing, his breathing soft and steady against your cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice small as you settle against him, aware of his closeness—the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his steady warmth grounding you.

A silence stretches between you, and for the first time, you notice the delicate details of his face in the dim light. His lips, full and red, look as if he’s been worrying them with his teeth, the faint hint of color a stark contrast to his now pale skin. Your gaze lingers, and your heart skips a beat as he catches you staring.

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence. His eyes flicker toward you, a breath catching as he seems to consider his answer.

Finally, he exhales softly, the sound barely a sigh. “Why do you hate me?” His voice is unguarded, almost vulnerable, like he’s been carrying the question far too long.

You blink, taken aback by the rawness in his question, and the easy reply slips away. It’s not hate, not really, but how can you tell him that? How do you explain the sharp, confusing tangle of emotions you feel every time you’re near him, the way he gets under your skin in a way no one else does?

You take a slow breath, willing yourself to find the right words in the quiet space between you.

“Jimin, I—” You trail off, the words twisting on your tongue, tangled somewhere between honesty and hesitation. Searching his gaze, you feel an odd, disarming softness in your own. “I don’t hate you,” you say, the admission spilling out quietly, as if confessing to yourself as much as to him.

“But you call me your enemy,” he replies, a sudden edge of hurt threading through his voice, as though you’ve wounded him in some way you hadn’t intended.

“I…” You hesitate. “I do.”

A crease forms between his brows as he looks at you, like he’s trying to decipher a riddle hidden behind your eyes. “I just don’t get it. You say you hate me so much, but you still… you still choose to sleep with me.” He pauses, cheeks tinged with something that might be vulnerability, though his voice stays steady. “And don’t get me wrong—the sex is… incredible. But this,” he gestures between you, “it’s confusing.”

Your pulse quickens, and you nod, feeling the truth slipping closer, almost within reach. “Do you want the truth?” The words are barely a whisper, a question woven through the cool silence between you.

His gaze softens, and he nods, leaning forward. “I’d love for you to tell me the truth. Don’t hide anymore.”

The walls between you feel thin, as if the icy cave itself might crack open under the weight of your confession. With a long, trembling breath, you gather the words from the depths of your chest, feeling each one like a stone in your throat. “I hate you because… because you’re perfect. Everything seems to fall effortlessly into your hands—grades, women, money, opportunities, whatever you want, like it’s just waiting to be handed to you. You’re good-looking, too,” you add, unable to meet his eyes, “and you… act like you know it all, like you’re better than everyone. Like it’s easy to just be good, without ever showing a flaw, a struggle, anything real.”

Jimin’s face is shadowed, yet you see the surprise flicker across it as he absorbs your words.

“It’s irritating,” you continue, emboldened now, “to watch you from a distance, to see you seem so above it all. Would it hurt to be a little human?” You exhale, feeling the tension spill out with each word. “And if I’m being honest, it started long before any of this… since kindergarten, actually.”

A confused frown deepens on his face, and he tilts his head, caramel eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Kindergarten?” he repeats softly. “What did I ever do to you in kindergarten?”

A dry, self-deprecating laugh slips out as you remember the humiliation so clearly etched into your memory. “You stuffed worms in my locker, my shoes, the pockets of my jackets. Then one day, in front of everyone, you pulled my pants down and told everyone I was a boy. I was humiliated… crying… and you laughed like it was nothing.”

Jimin’s mouth parts in shock, his eyes widening as he absorbs your words. He falls silent, as though his mind is spinning back, searching for the fragments of his memory that still hold that image.

“That was you?” His voice cracks slightly, touched by disbelief. He looks at you with something between remorse and horror.

You nod your head, a mixture of anger and sorrow swelling in your chest. “You don’t even remember?”

He winces, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he searches for words. “I… I’m so… I’m so sorry.” His voice is raw, laced with an almost childlike shame. He turns to you, eyes earnest and heavy with regret. “I was a kid—a stupid kid. I… never realized the weight of what I did.”

You shake your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “You’ve always been a dick, Jimin. A bully,” you add, hoping it stings just enough.

He nods slowly, his lips pulling into a remorseful line. “I know. I know I’ve been… careless. And I wish I could take all that back. I wish I could change what I was, what I… did.” He pauses, glancing down, biting his lip like he’s gathering courage.

But then his hand reaches out, gently brushing yours in the cold. His eyes meet yours, brimming with apology. “If you’ll let me, I want to try and be… better. Real. Not perfect, just… me.”

“It was humiliating, Jimin. I was the laughing stock for years—well into school,” you say, voice softening with a hurt you’d almost forgotten. Your gaze flickers to his, hesitant, but steady. “And even now, as adults, you never stopped singling me out, teasing me. At first, I thought you were just bullying me all over again.” You hold his eyes, bracing yourself. “But that’s not what it was, was it?”

He swallows hard, his throat working as he searches for words. “No,” he replies, voice almost a whisper. “I never meant to hurt you, Y/N. Not then, not now.”

“I know that… now,” you breathe, barely above a whisper. You can feel something shifting, unspoken.

He looks down, mittens pressed against his temples, and you see him struggling, caught between words. “It’s your turn to be honest, Park,” you prompt gently, needing him to lay his truth bare, even though you think you already know. You’ve been holding onto a realization, but you want him to say it, to free you both from these years of misunderstandings.

He lets out a shaky sigh, his gaze tracing your face with a softness that catches you off guard. “I… I liked you. Even back then, I thought you were amazing—strong, fierce, and different from anyone else. I wanted so badly to get your attention, to make you notice me. But the only thing that seemed to work was… making fun of you.” He pauses, rubbing his head with a small, almost defeated smile. “I know how it sounds. I was a stupid kid. I just didn’t know any other way.”

You stare at him, breath catching, your chest tight. He liked you. Past tense. Your heart beats louder as you whisper, “And now?”

He meets your gaze, a spark of humor and something deeper lighting his expression. “To be clear, I still like you,” he says, words filled with a raw honesty. “I still think you’re fierce and strong and… stubborn as hell.” He laughs softly, glancing down as his cheeks flush. “But I’m sorry, truly. I’ve been a jerk, trying to get close to you in all the wrong ways.”

A laugh slips from your lips, warm and soft. “That you are,” you tease, hoping it stings just a little, though your voice is laced with a fondness you can’t hide.

He chuckles, a little nervously, but he inches closer. “Maybe, but…” His voice lowers. “I’m your jerk.”

And that’s all it takes. You move toward him, closing the space, and press your lips to his with a need that has simmered, unacknowledged, for so long. His mouth is soft, tender and cold at first, but as the kiss deepens, warmth spreads, igniting between you like a long-awaited spark finally catching flame. His hand rises to your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent, as though he’s savoring each moment, each breath.

A low sound escapes him, his lips parting just enough for his tongue to trace your lips, soft but insistent. You open to him, feeling his breath, tasting him in a slow, heated dance that feels both new and achingly familiar. It’s as though every word left unsaid, every look and touch left unshared, has led to this moment—an unspoken promise unfolding between you.

For years, you’d run from this, denying the pull between you, clinging to your hate to hide the want. But in his kiss, there is a confession, a surrender to the fire you’d both fed. You feel him breathe out, his lips curving into a soft smile against yours, and you can’t help but return it. For the first time, that tension between you isn’t a battle—it’s something beautiful.

Whatever it is that’s sparked between you and Jimin these past few weeks—this whole holiday season, really—has been wild, confusing, and so, so good. He knows how to rile you up, pulling at every loose thread in you, but somehow it always leaves you wanting more. You breathe out a laugh and press a kiss to his cold cheek, feeling the scrape of winter on your lips.

“I don’t… I don’t really hate you anymore,” you whisper, breath mingling with his as it hangs in the frozen air.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazes into yours. “Hmm?” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous in a way that thrills you.

You feel a warmth rise through you and giggle, words spilling free. “Actually, I think I kind of like your stupid ass.” Your confession hangs between you, breaking the ice you’d held onto for too long.

He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, brushing his lips over yours before catching your bottom lip gently between his teeth. “So you do, do you?” he murmurs, his smirk curving just right.

He laughs, soft but filled with a rough, quiet possession. “You’re such a brat,” he teases, voice a warm rumble against your skin. “But you’re mine. Right?”

“Yes, yours,” you gasp, feeling heat spread through you, even through layers of wool and fleece. And when his gloved hand traces your cheek, the cold feels electric, meeting the fire he stirs in you.

You press closer to him, fighting against the fabric that holds you back, and your fingers drift to the zipper of your snowsuit. “I think you’re the only one who can warm me up,” you murmur, voice laced with a tempting edge as you bat your eyes up at him. You ease the zipper down slowly, watching his eyes track the movement, the hunger flickering there, even in the shadows.

He watches your movements, tongue flicking across his lips. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks, voice low, but his own fingers stray to his zipper, betraying his anticipation.

“Don’t you want me?” you ask, coy, breathless. “I’m freezing,” you whisper, letting his name fall from your lips like honey. “Warm me up, Jimin.”

A shiver runs down your spine as you slip out of your snowsuit, baring your skin to the chill. You let each layer fall away, watching his gaze darken with every inch. The way he looks at you makes you feel like a fire ready to ignite, even in this icy cave.

“Do you want to touch me?” you murmur, letting your hands slide up over your skin, cupping your breasts and circling your perk nipples with your fingers. “Keep me warm?”

His breath catches, and you hear the small intake of air as his eyes roam over you. “You’ll be the death of me,” he says, words rough, barely restrained. His mittens fall away, and his hands shake slightly as he unzips his own suit, each motion slow, deliberate, eyes locked onto you as he bares himself, piece by piece.

His last layer falls away, and he stands before you, bare, his skin glowing in the dim light. He’s beautiful—always has been—but now, here, he’s something else entirely, a vision you want to savor, every single inch.

Your body feels like it’s burning, a heat that cuts through the cold and wraps around you both, a living, pulsing warmth that’s only intensified by the nearness of his skin against yours. You press closer, savoring the spark that flares between you.

Here, in the shelter of the cave, the storm howling outside, you can finally give in to him—no barriers, no misunderstandings, just you and him, bodies and hearts both raw, reaching for the warmth of each other, finally unguarded.

“Maybe you should look in a mirror sometime,” you pant, voice soft but daring as you lean closer, fingers sliding to rest on his strong, tense thighs. “Then you’d understand why everyone either hates you or wants you—you’re too damn good-looking.”

He shivers, the surprise flickering across his face, quickly replaced by a laugh. “Cold! God, your hands are freezing,” he says, teeth flashing in a grin that’s both playful and predatory.

“But my mouth is warm,” you whisper, your words laden with heat, slipping between you like a spark catching flame. “Would you like me to warm you up?”

A low groan tumbles from his lips, raw and resonant in the stillness of the cave. His eyes flash with need. “Fuck, yes… show me how much of a filthy brat you are, how good you take my cock,” he murmurs, biting his lip as he watches you, the hunger in his gaze unmistakable.

You move closer, lips parting as you take him into the warmth of your mouth, and he gasps, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. You know your hands are icy, so you hold them steady on his thighs, giving all the warmth you can to him through the softness of your lips, each deliberate, tender movement of your tongue.

“Here, hold on,” he breathes, voice catching as he leans forward, resting his hand on your shoulder. “I don’t care if your hands are cold—hold me. We’ll warm up together.”

You let your fingers dig gently into his thighs, and the intensity of his gaze on you sends a rush of warmth down your spine. With every movement, every soft sound he makes, you can feel your own heart quicken, feel his fingers thread into your hair, guiding you just the way he likes. He groans low, head falling back, eyes squeezed shut.

“Can I fuck your mouth now?” he whispers, his voice barely a breath, desire heavy in each syllable.

You squeeze his thigh in answer, and he tightens his hold, moving with a newfound rhythm, a need that’s both patient and wild. He moves against you, each movement controlled but trembling at the edges, and you let yourself melt into the moment, matching his pace, losing yourself in the heat of his touch and the unspoken need between you.

“So dirty,” he rasps, one hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing over your skin in a soft, reverent gesture. “Your mouth is perfect.”

His praise sends a thrill through you, and you can’t help but respond, letting him feel the depth of your want in the press of your lips, the urgency in the way you take him. He gently brushes a thumb across your cheek, his hand soothing even as his breathing grows more erratic.

But then he pulls back, gaze tender yet intense as he catches his breath, looking down at you with an expression that makes you feel like the world’s slipping away outside the cave, leaving just the two of you.

“I want to cum inside your pussy, but first I want to taste it,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, his thumb lingering just below your lip.

With the back of your hand, you wipe the dampness from your lips, whispering a single word, “Please.”

A grin curls across his lips, admiration flickering in his eyes. “My little cockslut,” he murmurs, voice low with praise.

“Lie down,” he instructs, gesturing to the soft fold of your snowsuit. You spread it on the ground, sinking onto it and parting your legs, heat radiating as you yield to him, vulnerability and desire intertwining.

He lets out a soft, appreciative sound, dropping to his knees and gazing down at you, his face close enough that you feel his breath trace delicate patterns along your skin. “So pretty and wet,” he groans, eyes dark with promise. “And I’m going to devour you. I think you deserve it, don’t you?”

A shiver skims through you as his breath fans over your skin, stirring the ache in you, anticipation pooling like molten warmth. He lowers his head, pressing soft, reverent kisses along your thighs, moving ever closer to where you need him most, his eyes locked on yours as if he’s drinking you in.

Without another word, he dives in, his mouth covering you with deliberate intensity, the warmth of his tongue drawing desperate sounds from your throat. Your hands find their way to his hair, tangling in the softness there, and you close your eyes, letting yourself surrender to each unhurried touch, each flicker of sensation he sends rippling through you.

“Fuck, Jimin,” you pant in pleasure.

The world outside the cave melts away as he moves with breathtaking skill, every graze and stroke pulling you deeper under his spell. He hums against you, his hands gripping your hips, and the vibrations send fresh waves of longing through you, toes curling as pleasure builds, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge, “That sinful tongue, Park,” you moan.

“I’m gonna come soon.”

You feel the touch of his cool fingers trace along your thighs, sending shivers through you, every nerve alight with anticipation. His fingertips graze your skin, drawing a soft quiver from deep within as his hand slides into you with reverence, coaxing you to open wider, instinctively welcoming him.

His lips and tongue explore with both gentleness and urgency, and each flicker, each lingering movement ignites a fire in your core, every cell in your body pulled taut, straining toward release. His hand moves with deliberate care, matching the rhythm of his mouth, deepening your pleasure as he senses the way your breath catches, your body arching and moving under his touch.

As his fingers press further, a delicious warmth blooms and pulses within you, and everything—your breath, your heartbeat, the world beyond—fades, leaving only the intensity of the connection between you. It builds slowly, steadily, like a wave gathering strength before it crests, your body and his locked in the timeless dance of anticipation and fulfillment.

“Jimin!” When your release finally overtakes you, it’s like being swept under by a warm current, filling you, leaving you breathless as he continues to hold you, his movements gentle, guiding you back down. He leans up, his face radiant, his gaze tender as he meets your eyes, and then he’s kissing you, his lips soft and warm, grounding you in the closeness you share.

“Jimin, please—fuck me like you did yesterday,” you whisper, your voice a sultry caress in the dim light, a soft yet desperate plea. Yet, deep down, you know there’s no need for such entreaties; he would give you the universe if you asked, for he is undeniably weak for you—a truth that has lingered in the air between you from the very beginning.

As he crawls over you, you can feel his cock stirring, his body pressing closer, the warmth of his skin igniting a delicious ache within you. His face glistens with the evidence of your orgasm. He leans down, capturing your lips with his, the kiss deep and hungry, wrapping you in his embrace, soft and inviting.

You savor the taste of yourself on his mouth, an intoxicating blend of sweetness and urgency that sends shivers racing down your spine. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, poised over your sensitive core, and every nerve ending ignites in anticipation. A heady mix of longing and need courses through you, the world outside fading away as you focus solely on him, yearning for the moment he finally fills you completely.

You gaze into his eyes, a storm of emotions swirling within you, wondering why it took so long to confront the truth that has simmered beneath the surface. With a rush of boldness, you bite your lip and pull him into a deep, fervent kiss, surrendering to the heat that has long been building between you.

When he finally pulls away, a teasing smile dances on his lips. “My needy little brat,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry. “I’ll give you what you crave, don’t worry.” His hand strokes his cock, teasingly placing it against your slick folds, nudging them apart, igniting a fire of desire deep within you. You feel elated, ready for him to claim you as his own—like he can’t enter you fast enough.

Slowly, he pushes into you, a low groan escaping his lips as he fills you completely. “You’re always so fucking tight, no matter how many times I fill this perfect pussy,” he pants, anchoring himself on either side of your arms, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with lust and admiration.

You don’t respond, lost in the bliss of the stretch, the way he fills you up just as you crave. He grunts as he reaches the hilt, pausing to catch his breath before pulling back, only to thrust back into you with delicious force.

“Fuck!” you gasp as he finds a rhythm, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure coursing through you. You revel in the sensation, your body alive with longing.

“You really like my cock, huh, brat?” he teases, the usual playful tension replaced with a tenderness that sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“Yes. I’m obsessed with your cock, Jimin,” you breathe, your hands roaming, gripping your thighs to change your angle, urging him deeper.

“Right there—fuck, it’s so good,” you mumble, each thrust striking your g-spot perfectly, sending sparks of ecstasy dancing behind your eyelids.

“My brat, all mine,” he pants, driving into you deeper, harder, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and possession.

“Hugging me so perfectly,” he breathes, his words wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

He leans down, his warmth enveloping you as his mouth finds a nipple, sucking hungrily. You moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, craving more of his touch.

A new orgasm builds within you, heightened by the way he fills you, surrounds you with his warmth and the intoxicating scent of him—musky and primal. His tongue dances over your nipple, teasing it before moving to the other, and you feel yourself spiraling, stars flickering in your vision.

“Jimin, I’m coming again,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper as he sneaks a hand between your bodies, circling your clit with deft precision. The tension inside you tightens, coiling like a spring ready to snap. Your body arches, pressing your breast into his warm mouth as he continues to thrust into you.

Just as the wave crashes over you, he pulls his finger away from your clit, leaving you panting, blissfully dazed. He pops off your nipple, gazing at you with a mix of admiration and desire. “My sweet brat,” he whispers, his voice thick with longing. “So beautiful when you come.”

You bite your lip, feeling the throb of his cock deep inside you, aware that he’s close too, and the thought ignites another wave of need within you.

“Jimin-ah,” you pant, your voice thick with desire, “fill me up with your seed,” you moan, lost in a haze of pleasure.

“I’m gonna fill you up real good,” he promises, urgency lacing his tone as he quickens his thrusts, snapping his hips against you with raw fervor.

“Fuck. I’m gonna come too,” he grunts, each word a desperate plea as your pussy throbs around him. With a strained moan of your name, he releases, his warm essence flooding you, filling you completely. A wave of ecstasy washes over you, and you can’t help but moan in response, a sound of both satisfaction and yearning.

He stills inside you, breathless, both of you bursting into laughter at the sheer intensity of your desperation. He lays his head against your chest, feeling the rhythmic beat of your heart, the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Why did we waste so much time?” he asks, his voice soft and breathless.

“Because you’re a jerk and I’m a stubborn brat,” you reply with a teasing laugh, your fingers threading through his hair, ruffling it playfully. “But we’re here now,” you add, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, a promise of what’s to come.

For a while, he remains within you, and you don’t mind that his semen seeps out, mingling with the cold air of the cave. The chill surrounds you, but in this moment, you’re cocooned in each other’s presence, and you drift off to sleep, naked and intertwined.

When you wake, a chill has settled over you, and Jimin lies beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your frame. But the cold bites at your skin, and you shiver, unsure of the hour or how long you’ve been ensconced in this cave.

A discomfort lingers between your legs, a reminder of the night before, and you groan at the sticky feeling. Jimin stirs beside you, his voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

You reach for your backpack, fingers fumbling until you pull out your phone. A rush of surprise hits you as you see that an entire day has slipped away. “It’s morning apparently,” you say, the words echoing in the quiet cave.

“Ugh, it’s so cold,” he groans, drawing you closer, seeking warmth as you let him spoon you, his body a comforting heat against the biting chill.

“We should eat something though,” you suggest, your stomach rumbling in agreement.

“Do you have more protein bars?” he asks, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Yeah, a few. But do you have water? I’m almost out,” you reply, feeling his warm hands wander across your skin, igniting a soft sigh of pleasure from your lips.

“I do,” he answers, and with a reluctant sigh, you both rise, reaching for sustenance. You munch on protein bars and sip water, but a quick glance at your phone reveals a troubling truth—there’s no signal, and both your phones are perilously low on battery in the relentless cold.

“My stomach hurts,” you admit, a twinge of discomfort settling in.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern knitting his brows as he studies your face, his warm gaze searching for answers.

“I have to…,” you hesitate, a flush of embarrassment creeping over you. “I have to poop.”

He bursts out laughing, the sound echoing in the cave like a burst of sunlight breaking through clouds. You stare at him, disbelief mingling with mortification. “If you have to go, don’t hold it in; that’s not healthy, you know. Just go over in that corner,” he points to the very spot where you’d relieved yourself yesterday. God. This is so not sexy at all.

“I’m not pooping in the corner. I’ll just hold it in,” you groan, mortified.

“Suit yourself, but you never know when the others will find us,” he says matter-of-factly. “Maybe we should try digging ourselves out?” A playful grin lights up his face, and you hate that you confided in him.

“I just don’t think I can do that in front of you,” you mutter, getting up to put your clothes back on, your cheeks burning.

“Fair enough,” he shrugs, “but at this point, we’re practically married. I’ve seen you cry, be a brat, pee, and everything else in between.”

You sulk, the fiery banter reigniting as you jut out your bottom lip and cross your arms while he gets dressed, the familiar warmth of your friendship sparking once more.

“But be my guest and keep it in,” he says, moving toward the entrance. He begins to dig with his gloved hands, but the effort seems futile. You walk over to him, helping him remove the stubborn snow, only to find it’s solid ice.

“I think it’s frozen over from the night. Damn it,” he pants, frustration seeping into his tone. “How are we going to get out?” you ask, desperation creeping back into your voice.

“I think we just have to wait for the others to find us. We still have some food and water, so we’re fine,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, retreating to your previous spot. You follow him, sitting down beside him, feeling utterly deflated.

“Hey, try to look happy while being stuck with me,” he huffs, curling his legs up for warmth.

“Sorry,” you reply, momentarily forgetting about your stomach’s protest. “I just don’t know what we can do,” you admit, feeling the weight of uncertainty.

“Well, we could always keep each other warm again,” he suggests, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and that’s all it takes for the fire to reignite within you. You shed your clothing, drawn into his embrace, kissing him with an urgency that banishes all thoughts of discomfort. Time stretches and bends, and you lose count of how many times you and Jimin have surrendered to each other in this cave. Both of you feel drained and cold, so you curl up together, using your snowsuit as a mattress and his as a duvet, your bodies intertwined.

“What if we’re going to die in here?” you muse, unable to find the solace of sleep.

“Relax, we won’t,” he murmurs, nudging your naked back as he wraps an arm and leg around you, the softness of his skin warming you. You feel his gentle presence against your backside, a comforting weight.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper.

“I can’t, but one of us has to be positive,” he grunts, his breath deep and steady, a lullaby that eases your fears.

You drift into sleep like that, cocooned in his warmth, surrounded by the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

When you awaken, the warmth of Jimin’s rock-hard cock presses against your back, and you catch your breath, a jolt of electricity coursing through you. Seeking his warmth, you instinctively arch your hips back, pressing your ass further into him. He groans softly, his arm slipping over your bare breasts, fingers grazing a sensitive nipple, sending a wave of pleasure radiating through you.

“Jimin—,” you moan, rolling your hips against him once more, and his delight-filled groan vibrates through your body, igniting a primal urge within you.

He begins to move against you, rutting against your ass, grunting in time with his thrusts. His fingers play with your nipple, teasing and pinching, and your pussy throbs in response, each pull of your breath turning quicker and deeper as arousal ignites your body like wildfire.

Suddenly, he withdraws his hand from your nipple, positioning it at his cock, pressing it between your cheeks. “Move forward a bit,” he instructs, his voice low and sultry, and you obey, angling your body just right for him.

In an instant, he starts to thrust against you, not yet entering, but the heat of it makes you shiver with desire. His hand trails down your stomach, gliding toward your slick folds. With deft fingers, he begins to rub circles around your clitoris, and you can’t help but moan, the sensation overwhelming you.

He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as you lie side by side. “My dirty brat wants dick again?”

“Didn’t get enough yesterday?” he teases, pressing down harder on your clit, making your breath hitch in your throat.

“I’m always hungry for you Jimin,” you pant, the naked truth spilling from your lips. You crave him, a desperate yearning that cannot be quenched, and in this moment, you can’t stay away.

“So dirty, my girl, right?” he breathes, the question lingering between you like a sweet promise.

“I’m yours, only yours,” you confess, needing him to know—because you are infuriatingly in love with him.

“And I’m yours,” he replies, kissing your shoulder tenderly, fingers working your clit with growing urgency. “Are you gonna come on my fingers?” he whispers, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes—,” you choke out, the coil of pleasure inside you tightening with rapid intensity.

His fingers dance left to right, up and down, then he pinches your sensitive nub, and you bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan. “I want to hear you,” he urges, his voice dripping with desire.

Your toes tingle, your entire body igniting in heat. “Jimin—, I’m gonna,” you pant, and then the waves crash over you as you reach your orgasm, the world around you fading into bliss thanks to his skilled fingers and that filthy mouth of his. He nibbles at your ear while rubbing you through your orgasm, his cock thrusting insistently between your cheeks.

“Fuck, you almost had me coming too. It’s so tight between your ass,” he murmurs, his voice warm and sultry as you descend from your high. Jimin’s hand wraps around your leg, hoisting it up, and he positions his cock at your entrance, your pussy fluttering in anticipation, still tingling from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Then he slides in, grunting, “So fucking good, always.”

You moan his name in sheer delight, “Please move.”

He grunts, and with a rhythm that feels like poetry, he begins to move his hips, his cock gliding in and out of you, drawing you deeper into the exquisite sensation.

“You can go faster,” you murmur, breath catching as he holds your leg up, his fingers strong against your thigh.

A low hum escapes him as he obliges, thrusting harder, each movement reverberating through you. “So wet for me,” he pants, his hand squeezing your thigh as he picks up speed, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

When he starts hitting that perfect spot, stars blur your vision, your body arching instinctively into him. You’re spent from all of yesterday, your muscles deliciously sore, yet here you are again, craving more.

His breath is hot against your ear, voice a low rasp. “My filthy girl. Always wet for me, always begging for my cock,” he murmurs, and you feel yourself clench around him in response, his words driving you wild, pushing you further toward the edge.

You pant as he thrusts deeper, each motion a sweet agony, his hips snapping against yours, the rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin filling the cave, a symphony just for you. “Little tease,” he breathes, “playing hard to get just to end up like this,” he says, almost growling the words against your neck, his tone both scolding and adoring, and it sends delicious shivers down your spine.

“Holy… Shit,” you moan, his relentless rhythm pushing you higher, his hands and cock guiding you past the breaking point. Your body tenses, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you come, and he doesn’t miss a beat. His hand finds your clit, rubbing it gently as you shake beneath him, his fingers slipping over your slickness before he brings them to his lips. “You squirted,” he grins, pride gleaming in his eyes as he tastes you, his gaze dark and devouring. “And you fucking taste incredible.”

His praise makes you clench around him, and he groans, driving into you, refusing to let up even as you try to catch your breath. “Fuck, Jimin,” you gasp, legs trembling with exertion.

“I’ve got you,” he assures, gently lowering your leg. Before you know it, he’s helping you to all fours, your head nestled against the softness of your snowsuit, and he lifts your hips, fingers firm at your waist. “Just a little more. I know you’re tired,” he whispers, his voice gentle but laced with desire. Settling onto his knees, he guides himself back into you, a deep moan slipping from your lips as he fills you to the hilt.

Gripping your hips, he pulls you back with each thrust, his rhythm quick, and every plunge feels deeper, more consuming. “So fucking tight,” he grunts, leaning down to nip at your shoulder as his hand smacks your ass, leaving a warm sting that only heightens the intensity.

He grips you tighter, fingers digging into your skin as he picks up the pace, and you feel yourself spiraling again, a third orgasm cresting before you’ve even come down from the second. Your body clenches around him, and it undoes him completely, a shudder ripping through him as he thrusts one last time, filling you as he groans in surrender, his release warm and full.

Breathless, he leans over you, his hand tracing gentle circles over your back. “Incredible,” he murmurs, caressing you in the afterglow, his praise softening the edges of exhaustion as you rest in his arms, completely spent but undeniably fulfilled.

Breathless and laughing, the two of you cling to each other as a noise echoes from the cave entrance. Suddenly, a chunk of snow tumbles inward, letting a burst of light cut through the dimness. Shielding your eyes from the sudden brightness, you spot Jungkook peering in through a widening gap. “Found them!” he calls out, then cringes, squinting. “Oh God—naked,” he grunts, feigning disgust as you scramble to pull your snowsuits over your bare skin, huddling together in hurried, flustered movements.

More snow is chipped away, allowing the full daylight to flood in, and soon the entrance is free. There, framed against the blinding white snow, stand all your friends, gawking with expressions ranging from surprise to outright amusement. You feel your cheeks ignite as they take in the scene—clearly, there’s no hiding what went on in the cave.

“We thought you were going to kill each other,” Taehyung quips, his eyes wide with mock horror as he takes in the scene.

Yoongi shakes his head, unfazed. “Told you they’d end up like this,” he mutters, already turning away to put his shovel back over his shoulder.

Seokjin groans theatrically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “For the love of all things holy, put some clothes on!”

Flushed and flustered, you stammer, “Could you maybe look away? A little privacy?” Jimin only chuckles at your side, entirely unbothered.

“Fine, fine,” Jungkook says, still grinning as they turn around, murmuring to each other, muffling laughter that echoes in the frosty air. You and Jimin hastily pull on your clothes, cocooning yourselves back into thick layers, but you feel oddly reluctant to step out of this little haven that the two of you created.

Just before heading out, you turn to him, and with a hand still bare, you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I meant everything I said, Jimin,” you murmur softly, your thumb brushing over his skin.

He leans into your touch, eyes meeting yours with a warmth that seems to banish the cold. “Me too,” he whispers, and a beat passes, his gaze dropping to your lips before he finally asks, “Would you… do you want to make it official? Date me?” He’s almost shy, his heart racing, caught somewhere between hope and vulnerability, as if this simple question holds so much more.

The light in the cave catches the shimmer in your eyes as you tiptoe up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Yes, I want to date you, Park,” you whisper against his mouth, warmth radiating between you.

A smile breaks over his face, and soon it twists into that familiar, mischievous smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he teases, already slipping back into the confident Jimin you know so well.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile as you grab his hand, fingers lacing together naturally. And as you step out into the bright snow, your friends’ teasing laughter ringing through the air, you realize you’re ready to endure anything, as long as you’ve got Jimin by your side.

“Have you checked your phone lately?” Jungkook asks, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he’s holding back a secret, a playful glimmer dancing in his eyes.

“No, why?” you reply, the curiosity rising in your voice. “It ran out of battery—Jimin’s too.”

The others nod in silent understanding, but when you finally make your way back to the cabin, plug your phone into the charger, and open the group chat, your heart sinks. The screen floods with a storm of messages, a chaotic wave of words and emojis that makes your stomach twist and your cheeks burn. With wide eyes, you instinctively flip the phone over, as if doing so might somehow erase the flood of embarrassing texts, as if they might vanish with a simple turn of the screen.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Series taglist: @yopjm @chimmy-licious @aubrey0moore @jeonsbabygirlsworld @haru-jiminn @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @nora12379 @joonsmagicshop @goldietigers294 @pjmxxjm @jimineepaboya

→ Author’s endnote: HAHAHAHA 😂 How is it even possible for this couple to get more chaotic? Truly, their energy is unmatched. Did you have fun finally uncovering why they’ve been throwing daggers at each other this whole time? What do you think—was it worth the wait? Honestly, writing this unapologetically jerk version of Jimin has been an absolute blast for me 🤭 Like, it’s almost too fun to lean into his sass and pettiness! (Should I be concerned?) Can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

258 notes · View notes

takes1 · 7 months ago

Text

p.2 asahi x feral reader w/ a size k!nk

this is gonna get so fucking good ya'll i love thisss!! it's fun writing this sweet guy be a little dirty lmao

warnings. nsfw. minors DNI info. nsfw / build-up to more smut / phone sex / mutual masturbation / blue balls / suggestive conversation / gentle giant!asahi / mutual size kink / sweet asahi / long-mid distance issues / kuroo's sister!reader / kuroo cockblocking / kuroo being protective / 2.3k words / multipart series so reply to be added to taglist! haikyuu collection. more hq here! part one here. part three here. final part here. more links. my ao3. masterlist. requests open!

Your pencil twirled, tap-tap-tapping against your half-filled page of notes as you searched for the next header to copy for this dreadful, draining history class.

Anything to distract you from the fact that he hadn't called you.

The game was Tuesday- now it was Friday evening, and still, no word from him. Maybe you had something in your teeth when you spoke to him, or you smelled bad, or he just didn't like your hair. You had dedicated hours trying to figure it out.

A phone call was hard evidence he was interested in you. Practically a 'yes' to your fantasies, which had only gotten more unhinged with the hurt of this perceived rejection.

He still remained just a few minutes worth of your real energy on some ordinary day. But God, how you mourned for what could've been. How he would've filled you up, wrecking you with the satisfaction and excitement you yearned for.

buzz buzz. buzz buzz. buzz buzz. buzz buzz.

The sound initially deepened your already lackluster mood, because you learned to be disappointed with every call that wasn't from a Miyagi area code.

You were grateful that your eyes happened to glaze over the screen before you completed the swipe to ignore it.

A piercing scream of delight filled your entire house through a cracked bedroom door.

Tetsuro's unwanted, grating voice across the hall shattered your elevated state of bliss:

"SHUT UP!"

"YOU SHUT UP! I'M ON THE PHONE!"

You took a deep breath on the fifth ring and, shaking off the nerves by standing up out of your swivel chair, you swiped across the screen to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, is this (Y/n)?" A deep, rumbly voice made your knees weak.

"Y-es," Your voice cracked, tummy tingly, "Is this- Asahi?"

His name left your lips so well. You fell onto your back on your bed, pressing your thighs together at the sound of his reply.

"Yeah, that's me."

You hadn't heard his voice before, thinking hard about it now, because he didn't say anything to you in person.

"I thought you wouldn't call," You bit your lip in restraint, but kept the tension in your belly, "Why'd you keep me waiting for so long?"

A grumbly sigh on the other end gave you a full-body shiver. You crossed your legs.

"I was nervous," He admitted.

The giant did have a heart, after all. Curious, you smiled and looked up.

Your face fell.

"Get out of my room!" You shouted at Tetsuro, who was lingering in the doorway.

"How long have you been in here?!"

"I'm not in your room," He tested you by putting a foot inside, and didn't answer your question, instead pressing his own, "Who the hell are you talking to?"

It reminded you: A quick 'Hold on' and what you thought was the mute button--

You scrambled across your bed to the doorway to close it, but he dove out of the way and you ended up shutting him in. You flung it open again.

"Get out!!"

The demon-spawn was making for your phone, so you leaped onto his back and weighed him down to the floor instead.

"It better not be--," He grunted with effort as he shoved you off by the face, "Some country-bumpkin prick!"

There was no contact on the screen, so he couldn't be sure who you were talking to even with your phone in his hand.

"Who is this?" He interrogated, his torso leaning on your bed, his knee on your chest to keep you down.

You punched his leg over, over, and over again. He swatted at you while looking at your phone to figure out why nobody was responding to him.

It gave you the opportunity to push him off while his balance was uneven. You slapped your phone out of his hand and it clattered to the floor.

There was a violent hush over the two of you.

Tetsuro rose of his own accord, dodging a slap, and kicked your phone far under your bed with a grumble.

"Like I'm gonna just let that happen."

The door slammed behind him. You skittered up, opened it, then called after him, "Stay out!!"

You made sure to lock and barricade it this time.

When you leaned down to find your phone, it was impossible to reach with your hands or legs from either side of the bed. That asshole had made sure to kick it just far enough to make you get creative.

You had to tie together a ruler and a clothing hanger to retrieve it, then use your foot to leverage it out.

To your relief, the call was still active. But it wasn't muted.

Heart sunk halfway down your ribcage, you asked a grim question, "How much of that did you hear?"

His chuckle lifted your spirits instantly.

Almost as a conditioned response, you glanced to the door. It was still secure.

"I'm so sorry, my brother is the worst." You grumbled, climbing back into your bed with a sore face, hand, and knee.

Asahi's tone was clear and smooth.

"It sounds like he just wants to keep you out of trouble."

Your body jumpstarted again at that word. You wanted all the trouble he had to offer. You couldn't help but giggle, since his response sounded as if he was referring to himself.

"I know how to handle myself," You grinned, "I'm only a year younger than him."

"He's a senior, isn't he?"

"Mhm."

"So you're a second-year."

"Mhmm," You could listen to him talk all day. Your hand rubbed over your prickled chest, savoring his voice against your ear.

"Good. I feel like less of a creep, now."

In his admission you could hear his lips curl into a smile- your covered your mouth and kicked your legs in the air.

"Don't tell me you thought I was a first-year," You teased with false surprise.

"I-," He sighed, a little labored, and something shifted against the receiver, "Knew it was a possibility."

His standards aside, your interest moved to the extra sound on his end of the line. You prayed it was something risque.

"What else do you wanna know about me?" You stretched your legs up and watched your blank ceiling, biting your lip in wait for his response.

The way he towered over you- his frame was perfect for your fantasies. You imagined him leaning over you now, legs draped over his massive shoulders.

"What made you want to give me your number?"

Another shift, a heavy sigh. You couldn't raise the volume any higher, nor could you hold the phone any closer to your ear to try to hear what he was doing.

In the hopes that he was dirtier than he wanted to let on, you smiled at the freedom to paint his imagination.

"Hmm..." You drawled.

An eager hand dipped between your legs, with one last glance to the door, and you palmed yourself through your shorts while you spoke.

"Your serve really did it for me," As you recalled that last hit, you heard him shift again, "I like your look- y'know, the whole samurai vibe--,"

Asahi laughed a little, making you grin.

"-I think it's really hot."

A pause. "Wait- really?"

"Yeah!" You giggled, "You're a good mix of cute and scary, that's a huge turn-on."

"Wow."

Maybe it was a bit forward of you to say, but so was everything else until this point. Your breath stalled, hoping that was a good wow. It felt so quiet for so long. Everything was still on both sides.

You sat up after a few moments, pulse quickening, and you bit your finger to keep from blurting out another stupid claim. It must've been too much- you were just about to hang up when you heard a quiet, different tone through the speaker.

"What are you wearing right now?"

Mouth open, you made sure to click mute before squealing into your pillow-- when you came up, teary-eyed from the pressure and excitement, you had to catch your breath.

Your voice was slightly hoarse when you unmuted yourself and asked, calmly, "Do you want me to lie to you?"

Thrown in a dumbing whirl of arousal, you went to reach for a vibrator, but realized the sound would probably be too much. You opted for your own fingers instead and tried hard to visualize his heavy hand over yours.

"Shit-," He huffed an uneven sigh, "Go for it."

Did he have any idea how sexy he sounded? You hoped he did- you hoped he knew exactly how to touch you, pleasure you, break you, then put you back together.

Your raised, flirty tone didn't match your answer, "Nothing."

The rumble of his laugh guided your hand to swirl small, soft circles around your clit. Your chest rose and fell a little faster, chasing the budding tightness that was finally coming back to you.

"What are you doing right now?" You couldn't help but ask. It was too tempting to wait around for him to tell you.

"Mm, I'm talkin' to you," He evaded. His smirk was audible through the phone.

His slight regional accent was so perfect. To Hell with city boys, you wanted this big, gruff countryside boy.

He laughed at your whine.

"I wish you weren't so far away," His tone lowered to a bare mutter- it was dripping in lust, but he covered it with a thin veil of wariness.

Your fingers felt so good, but his reminder only made you more sensitive to how you could never fulfill the ache deep inside without him right here, in Tokyo.

You could appreciate how he still kept his cards close. You weren't as patient as him- but upon your inevitable frustration that he wasn't as candid as you, the realization that it was the safer outcome dawned on you. If he wasn't so careful, he might hurt you.

Still, you were riding gentle, pleasant waves while you daydreamed through your response.

"How long would a train ride be?"

He didn't have to tell you how pretty you sounded for you to know. The little raise at the end of your sentence, the tiny waiver in your voice, you knew he liked it.

The quiet seethe on his end confirmed this. He told you without having to look it up, "Hour and a half."

Your pussy practically shut down.

"I could do that," You lied. Your brother would explode if he found out you hopped on a bullet train by yourself to go see some Karasuno boy- and he would. He always did.

Another low laugh. It fixed everything. You threw your head back again, fingers in your mouth so your fingers could slide a little better.

"Don't sound so disappointed," He cooed, "Me and the guys are gonna be in town for the weekend- and I was just thinkin'--,"

"Oh my god, yes. Whatever you're about to say, yes."

His distant 'Damn' away from the phone made you blush. You stopped touching yourself, just for the time being.

"There's just one problem."

You waited for the reveal without responding, then realized he wanted you to ask him.

"What?" You giggled at the weird pause.

His laugh was faint through the rest of his point, "Your brother."

You squinted at your ceiling again with a grumpy sigh. He was right. In fact, you were sure he didn't know the extent of how right he was. Your family was on Life360, and he had your location at all times.

If you turned your phone off, or deleted the app, or put it on 'battery saving-mode' he'd know, and it would be more ground to question you on.

It wasn't the tattling that bothered you, it was his nosiness in the first place.

The last time you snuck out to go see a boy further in the city, he followed you and ruined your movie date by kicking the back of his chair for half of the film. He drove you home and grilled you the entire way back.

"Fuck," You sighed, sitting up with a bit of a tummy-ache from your abandoned orgasm, "Yeah."

It sounded like he was moving again, but he was less flirty, and it made you think he maybe put his dick back up to think better.

"He actually called our team captain, Daichi. We were uh, still on the way back from the game. On the bus. And he put it on speaker."

Your jaw dropped again.

"Said he'd- ha-ha, he said he'd castrate anyone who touched you."

An annoyed sound left you.

"Don't tell me you believe that," You laughed pitifully.

Part of you believed it, so you wouldn't blame him if he did. That same days-long disappointment was creeping back.

Asahi considered his answer. He landed on, "I think... ah, I don't know. I think being cautious is smart."

You nodded slowly, but he couldn't see.

"I still wanna see ya," He added.

You grinned, relieved, and a little aroused again at his drawl, "Good."

It still left the obvious problem. You deliberated on what you could do. A glance to the locked door gave you one idea. Another glance to the window elaborated on it.

How could you see him, not leave the house, and have your brother not know at the same time?

Your question was slow as you slid off of your mattress and started to test the reliability of your window frame.

"How good are you at climbing?"

taglist.

thank ya'll for supporting this!!! i love this series it's so fun to write so i'm glad other people do too!! reply to be added to existing list :)

@valiantqueengarden @rinheartshyunlix @alpha-mommy69 @yuyunhoo @insertamazingnamehere @kreishin

masterlist.

requests. (including what you might want to see in the next 2 parts)

505 notes · View notes

misfitgirlwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Lucifer Having A Crush On You/How Would He React?

I'm not biased, I'm not biased, I'm not biased, I'm not biased, I'M NOT--

It's time for my fictional love and life and all I hold dear in my daydreams. Bitches, bros, nonbinary hoes, and genderfluid fucks, I present to you the Big Dick in Charge

I may reference works that I've read and when I do I'll drop their @ and link to their story it is law that you read it if you read mine, I don't make the rules

CW: none, slightly angsty but nothing too intense!

Alright, doves, this is post-season one. Lucifer now resides in the hotel with everyone and is slowly adjusting to being graced with Alejandro's Alastor's presence every day.

Let's be honest, our baby pays attention but puts in minimal effort. Saying that the days went by in a blur would be an understatement. Even conversations would be forgotten after a few short moments. On to the next task. Full focus on this thing. Once that's done? Well onto the next task! No tasks? Free time to spend with Charlie!

Things would start slow, and to really interact, you'd most likely start to approach him first. Maybe you've spent long enough watching the blond anxiously bounce around the hotel and graciously give himself a bit too much for even the Big Boss of Hell.

A timid approach from you, offering to help with whatever he's currently doing. Maybe you make snacks for everyone in the hotel and hand him his personally :)

And so it begins! A greeting here, a greeting there, slightly awkward conversations that slowly start to feel less forced with the little information you learn about each other along the way.

It's...nice! Refreshing! Lucifer would be more excited than anything and talking to you would become a part of his regular routine without much thought on the matter. You'd occasionally be on his mind just a little more, and he'd start to seek you out himself too.

I know you're already seeking him out. Bitch I'M seeking him out.

Helping with chores around the hotel quickly turns into simply enjoying the other's company.

One day you gift him his very own ceramic duck! You could have paid for it from somewhere or made it yourself.

Either way, he'd fucking LOVE it! Honestly, if you decide to try your hand at making it, he'd love it even more with all the rough edges and little bumps (it was made out of love for my babies who never touched clay in their lives)

In response, please expect many gifts in return. I like to think it's been a while since he's gotten a genuine gift like this

(Bonus headcanon: Charlie will see this and will come to you the next day with a list of things she wants to gift him and you two are unofficially officially the Buy Lucifer Anything Duck-Themed duo)

Lucifer loves how you react when he gifts you your very own rubber duck. Your smile and happiness always seemed contagious to him. It only led to him making/getting you more things.

You will have a rubber duck collection by the end of this, but what can you really say? Each one of them is based on something you mentioned before. A movie character, a book character, a cartoon character, even friends or family members if they were mentioned. The gesture is way too sweet for you to turn down, even if it is the 30th duck you've received.

Now prepare for what I like to call the "get along t-shirt" phase but both parties are willing LMAO.

Lucifer will be by your side as long as you'll accept the company and if you're reading this and we brain the same, that will be all the time.

I love the GenZ!Reader memes and fics. Someone show this man bacon pancakes and if it was already done, SHOW ME.

Between his relationship with Charlie and with you, Lucifer actually feels the need and wants to be a little more present bit by bit. He notices that he is spending less time in his head, but he continues on in fear of fucking it up if he thinks too hard about it.

So instead he'll 100% focus on the little familiarity of happiness, as small as those moments may be sometimes. This is EXACTLY why the thought of him potentially feeling romantic interest again goes right over his head.

Who notices first, you ask? Charlie, of course. You slowly but surely became one of his main topics in conversation, it wasn't hard for her to pick up on it and ask.

Baby boy would straight up deny it at first. Him?? Liking someone else??? LMAO, am I right? Of course, after he does this, he'll have the time to actually pay attention to his actions.

So then he'll notice how excited he is every morning knowing that you'll be the first face he sees. He'll notice how he managed to fit you into any task he had to do. When he'd get lunch for himself and Charlie he'd have the automatic thought of making something for you as well. Even when the day was over, he'd be thinking about spending the next day with you. To be frank, you were constantly on his mind.

Once he notices it's a big mental "fuck". Nothing about you is wrong of course, it's him, or so he thinks.

Let's start with the elephant in the room, or shall I say the ring on his finger lmao

In Lucifer's mind, he's still married technically. Even thinking about it in a technical term was a new development and it made him feel absolutely horrible. Lilith left, sure, but who knows what happened? Regardless of how he felt, he didn't want to hurt her.

But at the same time what about him? Lucifer hasn't been happy in a long time and he's finally building that again, not just with Charlie, but with you as well. He didn't want to just cut you out, he didn't want to hurt you either.

Plus, did you even like him? How would he even approach you? If he wanted to, even after thinking about everything.

Who was he kidding, of course, he still wanted you!

@liveontelevision *drops to my knees and bows* they worded it extremely well here and if you're reading this but you haven't read this already or you clicked the link then clicked back here, go back and read it. I don't care how long it is. Do the thing then come back.

Welcome back. It was good, wasn't it? I know.

The only awkward period for you two is the week-long contemplation of everything (half him attempting not to do what he always does when stressed but by the time he realizes he already made like 30 ducks--)

He would clearly go out of his way to either try and talk to you or avoid you. Or a cute mixture of both where he makes a scene approaching you, realizes he's not ready yet, then makes a scene so he can disappear *finger guns*

A little crisis here, a few little rubber ducks there, and a looooonnnggg conversation with Charlie and Maggie Vaggie.

Those are the ingredients to a semi-stable Lucifer with enough bravado to talk to you normally again.

He'd apologize for the times he basically pulled a Houdini in your face and he'd explain himself fully, all while also confessing his love for you.

It's choppy, it's fast-paced in some areas, and the poor blond was ready to disappear at any given moment, but that's what made it so real for you.

The weight that's lifted off of him couldn't be described, and neither could the joy that welled in him the moment he saw your beautiful smile and heard nothing but your acceptance and love.

What an emotional roller-coaster, am I right?

Lucifer Taglist: @alastorssimp @saints-wrapped-in-plastic @heart-of-the-morningstar

Requests are open! If you'd like to be tagged in future Lucifer or Hazbin Hotel content, please let me know! My asks and DMs are open to all!

#hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer morningstar x reader

380 notes · View notes

notjustjavierpena · 2 months ago

Text

Ofrenda

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Happy Day of the Dead to all of my followers! I hope you’ll take this time to reminisce about the loved ones that you have lost, and smile when you think of them. I thought of my mom the whole time while writing this, and it makes me sad to know that I live in a country where we view death so gloomily when life should be celebrated. I have written this with utmost respect for the Mexican tradition, trying to do endless amounts of research. I have also written this with endless gratitude to be able to express my love for Javier and his family as well as my own mother at the same time. We never get enough time together, so this beautiful holiday is so heartwarming. Hope you like it ❤️!

Summary: You make an altar with your family for Javier’s mother during Día de Los Muertos.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18, depictions of grief, loss of a (grand)parent, family dynamics, so much love in this little family, domestic bliss, non-explicit descriptions of sex, love confessions

Word count: 3k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60151243

Ofrenda

You are in the kitchen, cutting the stems of marigolds on an angle into the sink. The scent of the flowers is citrusy and slightly spicy, complimenting the lemon cookies that are in the oven and nearly done. Beside the sink lies several bare stems too because Lucas is holding a bowl of their petals in his small hands.

He shows it to Inés, “You need to take a handful.”

“But I want cookies,” she only looks down into the bowl of orange for a moment before her attention turns to the oven, her little hands reaching out until you manage to stop her. She makes a noise of complaint but the mood of the room makes her dial down on how much she wants to fuss about it.

“The cookies are not for us!” Her brother replies with a serious look in his eye, clearly feeling authoritative in the task at hand, “They’re for Abuela (Grandma).”

“I’m sure you can have a few of them. She won’t mind,” Javier declares with a chuckle as he enters the kitchen too. His presence makes you smile to yourself, another burst of citrus filling the room as you cut yet another collection of flowers. You’ve filled almost two vases with them, have chosen the ones decorated with your favorite patterns, and fluffed them to look like two balls of sunshine.

“But she needs them. If she doesn’t get them, she doesn’t know where to go,” Lucas insists with a pout when his father crouches down between the two of them. He gives a look of concern as if he is the only one taking this seriously. You look over your shoulder and feel a flash of pride at how sensitive a boy you have made, but you don’t intervene because you know Javier has the situation under control.

“Sí, mijo (yes, my son),” he places a hand on the back of his son’s head, pulling him in to kiss his hair, “They’re for her but I am sure she’ll be happy to see you enjoy them too. She liked sharing with whom she loved.”

“Cookies for grandma and Inés,” Inés says proudly as if she finally understands the importance of the baked goods. Lucas’ expression eases a little as he stares at his baby sister’s longing but then he says her name.

When she whips her head around, he shakes the bowl of flower petals, showing them to her again. You can see how much Javier loves how he is taking this to heart.

“Just a little handful, okay?” Lucas encourages.

Inés’ little fingers dig into the petals, bringing up a much larger fistful of the bright orange marigolds than intended. She stares at them with wide eyes, enchanted by the strong color. Her little mouth falls open with a quiet pretty and she nods seriously. Lucas nudges her with his elbow, directing her back to the task, “Come on, we gotta put them on the ofrenda (altar) so Abuela knows we remember her.”

They exit the kitchen and make their way to the small altar you’ve set up in the living room. You check the timer on the oven but there’s still eight minutes to go, so you and Javier take a vase of flowers each and carry them to the table that’s been draped with a bright, woven cloth, and adorned with pictures, candles, and memories of Javier’s mother.

As you set down the vase of marigolds, you spot the tiny figurine that you have come to know so well too; a figurine of La Virgen de Guadalupe. She stands by the picture of Javier’s mother, face tipping towards her as a silent protector. The photograph of her is from when she was young enough to be just a few years out of high school, smiling widely with her dark hair tied back like you have seen so many times in other photos. She looks so much like Javier and how you remember her from the very first photo you saw of her, the one that you sneakily glanced at back at Don Chucho’s ranch on Javier’s desk in his teenage room. The one that the figurine stood guard over. That was before you knew what kind of life awaited with her son but you’re sure it was when you realized what kind of husband he would be.

Javier sets down his vase as well, his eyes lingering on the photo of his mother for a moment before he busies himself with adjusting the flower arrangement, testing out a few angles. You touch his shoulder in silent support and smile gently at him. It earns you a little smile in return, one that seems full of gratitude and love.

“You okay?” You mouth.

Javier nods. He finally lets go of the vase and at the same time, a deep breath of air, suddenly satisfied with his work because his heart feels lighter. Not long after, he leans in to kiss you briefly on the lips, eager to make you giggle as he steals another peck while you complain about being covered in specks of flour and sap from the flowers. It’s messy, you say. He thinks you’re perfect.

As you draw away from each other, Inés and Lucas scrunch up their faces and crinkle their noses at the display of affection. However, even so, you can see the tiny smiles hidden behind the mock outrage. They stand by a little impatiently as they watch you smooch, a drizzle of orange petals trailing Inés due to her getting distracted and forgetting they’re still in her hand.

“Inés!” Lucas has the same exasperated look on his face as earlier when he notices the mess. You said earlier that it would be Inés’ first year of joining in on creating the altar and understanding its purpose, and Lucas has taken his role in it very seriously. He is clearly feeling the responsibility of teaching her the tradition right now.

“Sorry,” she drags out the word, a guilty expression on her face, and tries to bend down to scoop some of the petals into her palm again, only seeming to increase the mess.

Lucas puts down the bowl of petals to help her, coming off as slightly distressed. He has furrowed his brow as he concentrates, acting as if the entire success of this moment is relying on him, “Abuela can only visit if you put the flowers on the table!”

“Luke,” you crouch down after exchanging a look with Javier. You soothe your son by running a hand up and down his back, “Abuela is always with you. This is just to do something extra special for her.”

“But what if she can’t find her way?” Lucas asks with concern on his face as he puts down the bowl and starts gathering marigold petals, “We have to make it special.”

“Mamá’s right, we are making it special, mijo, because of all the care you’re putting into this. That’s what’ll guide her here tonight, not whether the cempasúchiles (marigolds) are perfectly placed on the table,” Javier reassures gently and crouches down beside the two of you, Inés mirroring him immediately. All four of you start picking up the remaining petals from the floor and Lucas visibly relaxes a little more, reassured that things might not be catastrophic after all.

Your husband takes Inés’ small hands in his and guides her through the process of gently scattering the flowers across the table, their vibrant color standing out beautifully against the crisp white cloth. The orange and gold complement the papel picado on the wall behind the altar too.

“Flowers for Abuela,” Inés scans the sight before her and then claps her hands with a big grin. She beams with pride, so much so that even Lucas finds her joy infectious and smiles as well. Inés points her little fingers to her work, “Making it special!”

“She’ll see those flowers and know you put them there for her,” Javier explains, still crouching on the floor next to Inés. She leans into him. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her even closer so he can plant a little kiss on her cheek, tickling her with his mustache until she giggles.

“Did Abuela like flowers, too?” Lucas asks and moves onto his father’s other side, resulting in him also getting dragged closer. From the look on Lucas’ face, you can see that it has been his plan all along

“She loved them,” Javier answers with a reminiscing smile, “You remember how many flowers there are in Abuelo's (Grandpa) garden, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Both Lucas and Inés say right after each other.

“Abuela planted them and she loved them just as much as she loved lemon cookies,” their dad recalls fondly and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he adds, “Well, almost just as much.”

At the same time, the timer in the kitchen dings. Inés whips her head in your direction expectantly and you laugh softly as she itches to tell you to get a move on,

“I’ll get the cookies,” you say to make Inés sparkle with glee. You give Javier’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before slipping back into the kitchen. You can hear your children chatting softly with their father as they stay by the altar.

In the kitchen, you take the cookies out and place them on a cooling rack, enjoying the familiar scent of sugar and butter that wafts through the kitchen. The cookies are still very hot to the touch but you carefully transfer a bunch of them to a plate.

“Here we go,” you say as you reenter the living room.

“And she had this laugh… Oh, when you really got her going, it would echo through the whole house,” Javier shares.

“Like Mom,” Lucas says and follows you with his eyes.

“Much like Mom, yeah,” Javier agrees and you smile shyly as all eyes land on you. They have shifted to sit down on the floor in front of the altar, moments ago staring up at the colorful display while Javier told stories of his mother. Now, the three of them have stopped talking when they see you place the lemon cookies on the table, anticipation on their faces.

“Hola, esposa (hello, wife),” Javier says with a soft smile, the kind that makes your cheeks warm because you know he loves you.

“There are plenty of Abuela’s favorites left in the kitchen,” you say as you take four cookies from the plate and make sure the rest of them look presentable. Then you kneel down next to your family, handing each of them a still-warm cookie, “Careful, they’re still hot.”

With the altar complete, the four of you sit together on the floor, a quietness settling over you. Between the picture of your mother-in-law, the lit candles flicker and cast soft, dancing shadows. The combined scent of the marigolds and the lemon treats makes the room smell lemony and spicy, and small decorative butterflies catch the eye between the paper banners.

Inés nibbles on her cookie, looking deep in thought, so you reach out to brush her hair out of her face. Her soft voice finally asks, “Do you miss her, Papá?”

Javier stops right as he is about to take another bite of his cookie. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment. It seems like a gut punch but one that he has learned to expect from having small children. He thinks for a second then nods. When he speaks, his eyes are shiny as they prick with tears and you can hear a slight trembling in his voice, “I do, baby. I miss her every day.”

Inés looks shocked at having caused her father to cry. She puts her cookie down on the floor and you quickly scoop it up. She crawls to sit in front of him on her knees, wiping away a tear that has made its way down his cheek after reluctantly escaping the corner of his eye, “Are you sad?”

“Yes, sometimes,” he breathes and looks down, sniffs, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to say sorry,” Lucas argues, looking to you for reassurance.

You nod and move to sit closer to Javier, pulling him into an embrace which he returns by holding your arm. You look at your son while resting your chin on top of Javier’s head, “Go on, Luke.”

Lucas takes a moment to find the right words, visibly skimming through the lessons you have taught him to find the one that applies here. He joins the hug, “Mom says that it's okay to feel sad when we miss someone because it means you really love them… It makes me feel good to miss Mom when I am at school because then I remember her.”

Inés, who has been quietly observing, joins as well. She rests her head against his shoulder, "We love you, Papá."

“I love you too,” he says and the words seem to give him a little courage, “Of course, it makes me sad, mija (my daughter). But having you, your brother, and Mamá here. It helps.”

“I know I say it all the time but I wish I could have met her,” you chime in and kiss the top of his head repeatedly, trying to keep it together yourself, “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“Inés and I wish that too!” Lucas adds, “We can do this every year!”

“Make cookies!” Inés exclaims excitedly. They both eventually pull back after remembering the baked goods. Returning to lemon cookies laid out near the ofrenda, they chew happily. You snicker at Inés' excuses to eat anything sugary and squeeze Javier tightly before drawing back too.

“I think she’d like that,” Javier sighs with a little smile, taking in the picturesque view of his family.

A few more minutes pass and you gently remind your children of the time, “Alright, it’s getting late. Let’s say goodnight to Daddy and Abuela.”

They exchange hugs and kisses with their father, and then - while she is perched on your hip - you hold Inés near the altar. Both of your kids lay their palms on the table, talking gently.

“Goodnight, Abuela,” Inés says and pats the cloth.

“We love you,” Lucas adds tenderly.

They follow you upstairs to brush their teeth, wash up, and get into their pajamas. You finish bedtime routines with much more hugs and kisses, tucking the both of them in and thanking them for a nice day. Inés still has questions about her grandmother but you tell her that it’ll need to wait for tomorrow. When she seems restless, you trace your finger over her face until she dozes off.

When both kids are asleep, you return downstairs dressed in your own sleepwear. You find that Javier has cleaned the kitchen and is sitting on the couch in the living room. He glances at the ofrenda out of the corner of his eye, looking thoughtful and melancholic. You can see how much Inés resembles him in the evening light.

You silently go to sit down beside him, holding his hand between the two of you.

"Thank you for today," he says softly, leaned back into the sofa and his head turned towards you, "For helping the kids understand."

“You are so wonderful with them,” you reply with a gentle smile, "They love her because you love her, and because she's a part of who you are."

“Still, I couldn’t do this without you, mi vida (my life),” he stresses and inches closer, slowly removing the gap between the two of you. You lean in and rest your forehead against his, a sigh of relief escaping him at being so close to you, “You make everything better.”

You don’t respond with words. Instead, you close the remaining distance between you and your husband, kissing him lovingly in the glow of the altar and the moonlight shining in through the window.

Yet Javier seems to have more in mind when he reaches up to cradle your cheek with his large hand. He rubs his thumb along your cheekbone, eager as he deepens the kiss. It earns him a chuckle from you as you draw back slightly.

“Not in front of your mother,” you whisper to tease playfully.

“She’d probably tell me to make sure I’m treating you right,” he laughs quietly, thumb still caressing your face, “Keeping you happy.”

“Then you are succeeding,” you tell him with sincerity, keeping all the playfulness he has ignited at bay to show love instead. He responds by getting up from his seat and pulling you by your hand, making you giggle girlishly as he brings you to blow out the candles for the night while whispering in your ear.

Then he leads you upstairs and makes love to you, slowly and passionately. It’s all long, slow kisses and quiet gasps as you arch your back when he touches you to orgasm. He knows you inside and out, what you need, and what you feel. You’d like to say that it’s the same the other way around, that you know him just as deeply.

In the afterglow, you rest your head on his chest and feel his hand caressing your hair. His heartbeat is slow, his breathing almost steady again. You look up at him and feel so much affection that your head swims. An idea pops into your head in the beautiful clarity that follows being with him like this, “Tomorrow we could go to the cemetery if you like. We could take your dad too and get him to bring some flowers from his garden.”

“I’d like that,” he replies, his fingers playing with and brushing your hair to the side absentmindedly, “Pop would appreciate that. It’s been a while since we all went together during Día de Muertos. Yeah, let’s do that.”

“That’s settled then,” you kiss his chest.

“Fuck, I love you, esposita (my little wife),” he says happily, absolutely in disbelief at your perfection.

“I love you too,” you respond with a shy grin.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

261 notes · View notes